Coming Home
by SylvieT
Summary: This story is a sequel of sorts, a continuation of 'Married Love' and 'A Love Worth Fighting For', two other stories I wrote surrounding FMN. Sara goes home to Grissom and fights to save her marriage. But is it a case of too little, too late? Spoilers for season 13, but only as regards GSR.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This story is an accompanying piece – a sequel of sorts – to _Married Love_ and _A Love Worth Fighting For_, both trying to explain THE breakup. You don't need to have read either story to follow this one but it _**will**_ help with understanding some references/quotes I will make and my thinking as I write this, especially as regards Grissom's behaviour.

I tried; I really tried to stick to oneshots as I am a little wary of embarking on another multi-chaptered story but, well, this idea has slowly been taking shape in my head and I know it won't leave me alone until I tell the full story. This addiction is a compulsion; I just can't help it, much to the chagrin of everyone around me. I hope you'll be interested in reading. We must be reaching saturation point for post-FMN stories soon.

As always, reviews, ideas and suggestions are greatly welcomed, cherished and appreciated, and a great source of comfort and encouragement.

Thank you.

* * *

Coming Home.

* * *

"The course of true love never did run smooth."

-William Shakespeare, _Midsummer Night's Dream_.

* * *

Lulled by the unvarying drone of the plane's engines, Sara felt herself drift off only to be sharply pulled out of her slumber when her shoulder got jostled by a passing passenger. Her eyes fluttered open and she stared sleepily at the blank television screen on the back of the seat in front of her for a moment. Before long her eyelids grew heavy again, closing all by themselves, and she let sleep once again wrap its snug blanket around her.

Shifting down on her seat with her hands loosely clasped on her lap, she stretched her legs as far out as they could go in the crammed space and gave out a deep sigh. Thoughts of her and Grissom in happier times soon filled her dreams, but it wasn't long until that changed and she was taken back to the moment her world had come crashing down around her.

"_Is this a good time?" he'd said, his voice cold and so distant on the phone that tears had immediately filled her eyes._

_There had been a moment's hesitation when Sara had contemplated saying that, No, this wasn't a good time, that there never would be a good time for what he had to say. She had looked around DB's office uncertainly, blinking away her pain as she tried to steel herself for what she knew was coming, what she knew had been a while coming, before finally replying in the affirmative. She'd been dodging his calls long enough. Like peeling off a Band-Aid, she thought, the quicker you do it the less painful it is._

_He took a breath and after what felt like an age to Sara said in a quiet, almost inaudible whisper, "Sara, honey, I'm sorry, but I won't be able to come for your birthday." _

_That's right, she thought bitterly, go back to form, take the coward's way out and let me down gently. She'd been hoping they could rekindle things between them during his visit for her birthday, but he obviously thought differently. Hot tears pricked her eyes but she wouldn't shed them. _

"_Something's come up," he went on softly, "which I can't get out of." _

"_Something's come up?" she repeated, her voice rising in disbelief at how pathetic his excuse was._

"_I'm sorry," he said again and cleared his throat. "I know the timing's bad, but it can't be helped."_

_The rising anger made her tears spill, and she brushed at them briskly. "It can't be helped?" she almost shouted, then glanced fearfully toward the closed door, checking her tone. _

"_It's to do with the course. I―"_

"_Gil, you promised me. You said you'd be there for my birthday." She hated the edge of despair in her voice, the pleading whine, but couldn't help it. "You already cancelled Christmas at the last minute knowing full well I wouldn't be able to get a flight out to you."_

"_That's not true," he defended weakly, and his voice had never felt as distant as it did then, his denial never as feeble. "That was different. I explained Sara. I came down with that bug and―"_

"_It's my birthday, Gil," she insisted. She could hear the fresh tears in her voice before she felt them slide down her face. "You promised me." _

_The silence at the other end, the lack of a response spoke volume. She felt very tired all of a sudden, drained of strength and with no fight left in her. Why should she fight to keep them together if he couldn't be bothered? _

_She took a couple of deep breaths, schooling her features and her voice back to neutral. Like a Band-Aid, she thought again, quick and painless. _"_You know what?" she said in a small, bitter laugh, "I've had enough. This is just too much. I'm tired of your excuses, of this long-distance crap. You over there, six thousand miles away, and me over here. That's not a life. That's not a marriage."_

"_Sara―"_

"_I can't do this anymore." Her tears were flowing freely now, and she paused to catch her breath. "You promised me, Gil," she cried, her voice pleading, beseeching, because in her mind this birthday reunion would have made all the difference. "We made all the reservations." _

"_Sara, please. You're angry and frustrated. I am too."_

_Not enough, she thought, or you would do something about it. But she was on a roll now, her anger blinding, putting words in her mouth she didn't really mean. Her voice was cold, devoid of emotion as she said, "I'm going to make this easy for you, Gil. Either you come home for my birthday, as we planned, or we're done. Over, simple as that." _

_There was a pause, a lengthy silence that stretched like the distance between them, and she'd wondered whether he'd hung up on her. And while she still hoped and prayed for a happy ending for them she knew they were done for. She was lowering the phone from her ear, ready to disconnect the call, when she heard him come back on the line. _

_"You're right," he said resignedly, and so quietly that for a moment she wondered whether she'd heard him right, "I can't do this anymore either. It's for the best."_

_She'd closed her eyes and walked round Russell's desk, sinking into his chair, the crushing wave of despair that coursed through her making her feel weak and numb. "Best for whom?" she'd queried in a breathless whisper, "You, or me?" _

_She never expected him to reply, but he did. "For both of us. You're not happy, and neither am I. I'm sorry I wasn't a better man for you, Sara. Or a better husband. I'm very sorry." The words had caught and he'd sucked in a breath before the line had gone silent. _

_And she had sat there with the phone in her hand, trying to make sense of her life. It had taken four months, four long months and a chat to Heather Kessler to finally understand._

Sara woke with a start, her heart thumping in her chest and Grissom's sad and resigned voice telling her he was sorry echoing in her head. Blinking uncertainly, she looked all around her, and it took her a second to find her bearings and remember why she was on an aeroplane. Her mouth was dry, her ears blocked, muffling the quiet chatting around her and the sound of the plane's engines. She tried swallowing to release the pressure, and when that didn't work tried yawning wide until she heard the satisfying pop.

She rubbed a sleepy hand over her face, pushing strands of hair back from her eyes before checking the corners of her mouth for drool. Then straightening up in her seat she rolled the kinks out of her neck and shoulders. Her legs ached from being folded in the same position for too long and she needed to pee.

She looked over to her neighbour, a man of about seventy, who was reading an article in Le Nouvel Observateur – a French current affairs magazine Grissom sometimes bought – and offered him a small, apologetic smile if she'd used his shoulder as pillow. The old man glanced at her, then dismissed her concern with a casual wave of his hand and a wide smile. She saw kindness and amusement in his gaze. The woman on the next seat on from him glanced over at them uninterestedly before returning her attention to her well-thumbed paperback novel.

The seatbelt sign was on. The flight attendant was collecting trash and in-flight magazines two rows down and generally making sure that seats were in the upright position, armrests lowered and blinds opened. Air France flight FR 310 from JFK was beginning its descent toward Paris. Automatically, she reached for her seatbelt, pulling at the strap to tighten it. Her chest felt tight as though her lungs weren't getting enough air and she wasn't sure if the feeling was due to altitude and cabin pressure, or her lingering anxiety.

She reached down into her purse at her feet for her bottle of water and thirstily drank from it. As she replaced the bottle, her hand brushed against the padded envelope containing the copy of _The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared_ she had bought for Grissom and never mailed. She hoped the hand-delivered gift could be an olive branch of sort, a peace offering, a small, very small and silly, token of her love for him. She pulled her hand out of the bag, her head shaking at her idiocy. What if this trip was a mistake?

Heather's words had kept playing in her head long after their chat had ended. Yes, what she and Grissom had was worth fighting for and saving. Her marriage and her love for him meant everything to her, and it had taken too long for her to realise that truth and do what she should have done in the first place. Packed up her bags and gone after him, demand an explanation and not just accept that their life as a couple was over.

And soon afterwards it dawned on her: Grissom hadn't actually called to break up with her, he had called to say he couldn't come home for her birthday. Disappointment and anger had made her give him an ultimatum, eventually putting words into his mouth. Her, or his work, she'd said, and thinking back now he had never really given her an answer. He'd merely jumped on her bandwagon. But why? Why had he been so quick to give up on them?

She had taken two weeks leave - all the vacation time she had left - which wasn't much. She wasn't sure what she hoped to achieve in that time. She had no plan as such, except to turn up on his doorstep, give him the book and go from there. She would know from his reaction if a future was still in the cards for them, wouldn't she?

_Grissom loves you, Sara,_ Heather had said. God, how she wanted these words to still be true._ I simply don't believe that he would just fall out of love with you. _

Tears rose, prickling the back of her eyes. She looked down to her hands on her lap and the bare ring finger. It still felt strange, even after three months of not wearing her wedding band, not to have it on. It didn't feel like it was her hand she was staring at. She had brought the ring with her, of course, and wondered now whether she should put it back on. Maybe if he knew she still loved him, that _she_ hadn't moved on...she sighed, not daring to finish her train of thoughts lest she jinxed any chance they had at a reconciliation.

"C'est votre première fois à Paris?" the man next to her said.

Wondering whether the question was addressed to her or the woman on his other side, Sara turned a casual expression toward him. He'd removed his glasses, revealing two very clear and piercing blue eyes. His whole face was creased in a smile as he stared back at her expectantly, and Sara found herself returning the smile brightly.

"No," she said, automatically replying in English before repeating her answer in French. This wasn't her first time in Paris. She took a moment to form the rest of her answer in her head before relaying it, hoping the man would understand her pigeon French. "Mon mari travaille là. Je vais lui rendre visite." I'm visiting my husband who works there.

"Ah," the man said, a look of understanding flashing across his eyes as he nodded his head enthusiastically. "C'est une surprise?"

A surprise? "Oui," Sara replied, her expression saddening despite herself.

"Je suis sûr qu'il sera très content de vous revoir," the man said in a solemn tone, picking up on her sadness.

_I hope so_, Sara thought,_ I hope he will be happy to see me._

The plane landed twenty minutes early, the pilot was happy to announce, to temperatures of 25 degrees Celsius and bright June sunshine. Sara picked up her purse from the floor and stood up as soon as the seatbelt sign came off, happy to stretch and in a hurry to disembark. She was standing in the aisle, reaching up into the overhead compartment for her carryon when the old man touched her on the hip.

"You forgot this," he said in heavily accented English and smiled, his stare penetrating as he held up the white padded envelope with Grissom's name on it.

Sara's heart skipped a beat at her oversight. "Merci," she said, taking the envelope gratefully. She unzipped the side pocket of her carryon and quickly slipped the book inside it.

The old man bid her a "Bon séjour", a nice stay, as pulling her carryon she began to file out toward the front of the plane, and looking over her shoulder she tossed him a shy smile and "Merci" followed by a quick, "Goodbye."

Fifty minutes later, she had recovered the rest of her luggage and cleared customs. She could take the bus or the RER into central Paris and then the métro and walk the rest of the way, but with her heavy bags opted not to. She looked at the time on her watch and added nine hours, making a mental note to set the watch to French time later. It was exactly 2.35 pm on a Thursday. Parisian traffic should be relatively fluid at this time of day.

Pushing the cumbersome cart, she followed the signs to the taxi ranks out of the busy Charles de Gaulle airport and quickly snagged an awaiting car. Tiredly, she watched as the driver picked up her bags and stowed them away in the trunk, before climbing in the back of the Peugeot.

"Where to?" the driver asked in heavily accented English as he got behind the wheel.

Sara almost gave him the address to Grissom's apartment out of habit, but didn't. She didn't have a key and besides she doubted he would be there at this time of the day. Instead she pulled a piece of paper out of her purse and read out the address of the cheap hotel she'd made reservation for before she left. She'd have time to check in and freshen up first.

Glancing at her through the rearview mirror, the taxi driver nodded his head and pulled out into the traffic. As she sank back in the seat, idly watching scenery flash by and then familiar landmarks as they neared their destination, she couldn't shake her growing sense of foreboding about what the future held in store for her.

And more importantly, what it held in store for them.


	2. Chapter 2

"True love begins when nothing is looked for in return."

-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, French writer, poet and aviator.

* * *

Hotel St. Germain was a quaint, family-run affair, which was to say that it had seen better days, but it was cheap and more importantly within walking distance of Grissom's apartment. Sara paid for two nights upfront with the proviso that she could stay on if needed, then was shown to her single room on the third floor. The room was north facing and Sara had to adjust her vision to the relative darkness despite the bright daylight streaming in through the small window. Small and perfunctory, but clean and welcoming, it reminded her of her dorm room when she was a freshman at college.

Feeling weary and grubby after her long trip, she wheeled her luggage fully inside and took the proffered room key. She listened vaguely to the man as he explained where everything was, how to use the television and dial out on the phone, and what time breakfast was served. She thanked him with a quick nod and smile and he went on his way, leaving her to her doubts and growing anxiety.

The only window looked out over an inner concrete courtyard, and when she craned her neck to look down toward the bottom, she could only see bright blue trashcans lined up against the wall and bed sheets drying on clotheslines stretching from one wall to the other. Thankfully, she hadn't come for the sights. She hauled her suitcase on the bed, unzipped it open and stared at its content uncertainly before taking out a nice turquoise wraparound top with matching cream skirt.

She'd wear her strappy sandals, put on a little makeup to conceal the circles under her eyes and make her face look happier, less gaunt. She needed to look good. She wanted to look good and bright, and pretty and desirable. She wanted Grissom to see what he'd been missing, what he would be missing without her in his life. She shed her dirty clothes, picked up her wash bag, headed straight for the shower. And as she stood under the spray she only had thoughts of her husband and how he would react upon seeing her. Would he be cross and distant, or welcome her with open arms?

Thirty minutes later, she stepped out of the hotel lobby into loud street noises and bright sunshine. She slipped her sunglasses on and after taking a deep breath set off at a brisk pace toward 25 rue des Bernardins. Home, she thought with a pang of sadness. She knew this area of the fifth arrondissement of Paris well, of course, from when she had lived there back in 2010, but had forgotten just quite how charming and bohemian it was, how idyllic too despite the hustle and bustle.

The history, the architecture, the whole feel of the place were so far removed from Las Vegas and their life there that she fully understood why Grissom had readily accepted to return for a second term when the opportunity had arisen. He fitted right in, while she hadn't. She could have chosen to come back with him of course, and with hindsight she knew she should have.

Her steps slowed down as she neared the famous Eglise Saint-Nicolas-du-Chardonnet, a church built in the thirteenth century, until they stopped altogether and she took a moment to admire the architecture and ornate wood carvings on the magnificent door. She walked over to it and ran her hand on the big brass handle, reacquainting herself with an old friend. She swallowed the knot that had formed in her throat and pushed on, rounding the corner down rue des Bernardins and Grissom's apartment.

She checked her watch and looked up toward the fourth floor windows hesitantly. The blue wooden shutters had been pulled over them, keeping the heat out. She blew out a breath, then without a minute more to lose pressed her finger to the button on the intercom, calling his apartment. And then she waited, and waited, but the call remained unanswered. She checked her watch again, wondering where he could be. Grissom was a man of routine, and he should he back by now.

Doubts set in again; maybe turning up on his doorstep unannounced wasn't such a bright idea. What if he was out of town on a field trip, she thought suddenly, or simply out with friends she didn't know about?

She was about to turn back and try again later when she thought about Hank. Grissom would normally leave Hank with the concierge and his wife if he was to be away for any length of time, paying them handsomely for the favour. It wouldn't hurt to check, she figured, and if Grissom had mentioned the separation to them then well, she'd have to swallow her pride and make up an excuse.

"Oui?" came the crackling voice of the concierge's wife through the intercom.

"Madame Louboutin?" Sara said, startled by the quick reply, "Bonjour. C'est Sara. Sara Sid―Grissom."

There was a moment's pause. "Madame Grissom?" Madame Louboutin exclaimed with obvious surprise. "Attendez, je vous ouvre!"

"Merci," Sara called back.

There was the tell-tale buzzing sound of the catch being released in the lock, and Sara automatically pushed hard against the heavy wooden door before it could lock again. She gave her head a mild shake at the fact that she hadn't lost her knack, then releasing a breath, slid her sunglasses to the top of her head before letting herself into the cool lobby. Her eyes took a minute to adjust to the dark interior.

A door opened to her right and Madame Louboutin rushed out of her apartment, a bright smile lighting up her old face as she took in the sight of Sara. Instinctively, Sara returned the smile and the concierge's wife broke into an effusive greeting Sara had trouble following. It didn't take her long to realise that the old woman knew nothing of the breakup though, and Sara found some comfort in that.

Madame Louboutin stopped talking abruptly and studied Sara with narrowed eyes and a knowing smile. "Vous avez encore oublié votre clef, n'est-ce-pas?" she laughed, and Sara let out a breath of relief.

"Oui," she lied, "c'est ça. J'ai oublié ma clef." I have forgotten my key.

Her expression somewhat darkening, Madame Louboutin went on to say that she hadn't seen Grissom come home yet, but that he shouldn't be much longer, because he was a man of habits, wasn't he? Sara smiled and nodded, because she felt that was what was expected of her. There was a moment of awkward silence where the older woman watched Sara expectantly, her eyes pained and wistful, and Sara looked away toward the sweeping wooden staircase.

The concierge's wife gave her head a shake and plastering the easy and friendly smile back on her face made her way back into her apartment before returning with a big metal ring of keys, which she slipped inside the front pocket of her apron. Silently, they set off up the stairs, Sara clutching her purse tightly under her arm as she followed and if Madame Louboutin wondered about Sara's lack of luggage she kept it to herself. They reached the fourth floor and stopped outside Grissom's door.

"Monsieur Grissom va être content de vous voir," the older woman said solemnly, turning toward Sara. Mr Grissom will be happy to see you.

Deep sorrow tugged at her heart at the well-meaning words. Maybe the older woman knew more about the state of their relationship than she had let on. Sara smiled and nodded her head, hoping against all hopes that she was right. And when Madame Louboutin began to talk a thousand French words a minute Sara could only stare at her with a polite, practised smile and a slightly startled expression on her face.

After a while the concierge's wife must have glimpsed at Sara's puzzlement because she stopped speaking suddenly before saying in broken English, "I'm sorry I speak so quick. I very happy see you again." She gave her a warm smile. "Monsieur Grissom, he not tell you were coming."

_That's because he doesn't know_, Sara thought sadly, but tried to maintain the smile on her face.

"He miss you. Hank too."

Sara's smile broadened at the older woman's genuine care and concern. If only her words could be true, she thought with a sigh. Madame Louboutin stared at Sara a little while longer as though she had more to say before finally turning away. She got the keys out of her apron, chose one and slipped it inside the lock. The door clicked open, and she pushed it wide, allowing Sara to go in first.

Familiar smells assailed her nostrils, making her feel homesick for a home she hadn't lived in for quite a while. She heard the metal ID tag on Hank's collar rattle as he shook himself, and then the unmistakable click-clicking of his nails on the old parquet floor as he sauntered his way to the front door.

"Merci beaucoup, Madame Louboutin," Sara said, and the older women gave her a very solemn and understanding nod that should have meant to Sara more than what it did.

Realising it was her at the door and not Grissom, Hank picked up his pace and his tail wagging enthusiastically gave a joyful little bark and a yelp. His genuine happiness at seeing her brought tears to Sara's eyes, and crouching down she took a moment to return the dog's warm affection.

She never saw Madame Louboutin shake her head sadly as she pulled the door shut after her, leaving Sara alone with Hank to wait for Grissom to come home. Hank had other ideas though and after a while he moved toward the door and let out a long whine as he stared at it pointedly. Sara looked back over her shoulder toward the rest of the apartment, then back at Hank.

"All right," she told him in a sigh, "but we're only going round the block. I don't want to miss him."

Hank stared back at her expectantly and she laughed. Then, she picked up his leash off the hook and the spare set of keys that lived in a little wooden box tacked to the wall by the front door and followed Hank out of the building, down the street towards Quai de la Tournelle and the Seine.

When she let herself back in the apartment some twenty minutes later there were no signs that Grissom had been back at all. She was restless, the nervous energy coursing through her unsettling. It felt like she was trespassing, an intruder in her husband's home. Being there when he wasn't after what had happened between them felt wrong.

Hank made a beeline for the kitchen and quickly she heard him noisily lap up water from his bowl while she took a moment to look around and reacquaint herself with her surroundings. It was like time had stood still since she'd last visited, and she wished she were coming back under happier circumstances.

The door to the bedroom was closed, and Sara stepped next door to it into the living room a little uncertainly. The room was clean and tidy, except for a textbook discarded on the old couch and his jacket slung over the arm. His iPad sat on the coffee table in the protective leather cover she'd got him for Christmas next to a folder of scribbled notes. The wooden shutters of the two windows looking out into the busy street below were half-closed à l'italienne, the warm afternoon sun shining through the slats landing in strips across the walls and floor.

She moved over to one window and opened it, peeping through the gap between the shutters, craning her neck to look at the view all around, at the building across the road, the rooftops, church spires and blue sky stretching as far as the eye could see. The heat soon became stifling and she closed the window again. Next, she went to the kitchen, and found Hank there, sprawled on the cool tiled floor.

A slow smile spread across her face as she watched her beloved pooch. She missed not having him around in Vegas, but he was Grissom's dog and so stayed with him. She let her eyes wander over the familiar kitchen, as clean and tidy as the rest of the apartment and still devoid of anything electrical except for a toaster and a front loading washing machine. The faint smell of cooking titillated her nose, and she moved to the cooker, lifting the lid on the pan full of vegetable soup, freshly made by the looks of it. There was some residual condensation on its underside and the pan still felt a little warm to the touch. Dishes had been left to dry on the rack.

Her smile faded, morphing into a frown as she scanned her eyes over the rest of the kitchen, taking in some subtle changes to how it normally looked. For one, there was a vase of fresh irises in the middle of the small table in the corner and a big bowl of fruit on the counter. She noticed some boxes propped up behind the fruit bowl, vitamins and supplements mainly, as well as some prescription drugs, and her frown deepening reached for those. She turned the box over in her hand. The prescription was in French and issued in the name of Grissom but the name of the medication itself meant nothing to her.

She was putting the box back exactly how she had found it when she spotted a small bunch of bananas at the back of the fruit bowl. Her heart clenched in her chest; Grissom didn't eat bananas, he didn't like them. And that was when it struck her, and the thought filled her with intense dread. Grissom had met someone else and moved on. She was sure of it. Someone who bought flowers for the apartment and cooked him healthy meals, someone who shared his life now, and his bed. Someone who put his needs first. Unlike her.

She shouldn't be there. She could see now that coming had been a mistake. She looked over at Hank, blissfully dosing, and sighed. "Oh, Hank, I've made such a mess of everything."

Hank opened one eye and lifted his head off the tiles to look at her.

"Has he met someone else and moved on?" she asked him in a downcast voice. "Is that it? Is that why he broke up?"

Hank stared back at her inquisitively for a few seconds before lowering his head back to the floor and going back to sleep. She would go, leave before he was back. She would put the envelope with the book on the table - he would know it was from her - and leave. She was hurriedly reaching inside her bag when she heard loud, echoing footsteps coming up the stairs outside the front door.

She froze on the spot, immediately on the alert, and waited on tenterhooks for the person to walk on past and up to the next floor. They didn't. She repressed a shiver, and then another, the only sound that of her heart beating wildly in her chest. She knew even before she heard the next sound that it was him. The jingling of keys and then the scraping of one as it was slid into the lock only confirmed her suspicions.

Hank looked up and over toward the doorway, and then back toward her. His eyes seemed pained and questioning all of a sudden, expectant, as if he knew what had gone on between them, and swallowing she glanced down at herself, smoothing over her hair and clothes. She knew that their connection went a lot deeper than all that, but it was almost nine months since they'd last seen each other and her appearance suddenly mattered, especially if another woman was involved.

The front door opened, putting paid to her panicky thoughts, followed by a muffled bang as it shut. She closed her eyes, bracing herself. And then he was there, staring back at her.


	3. Chapter 3

"True love is when you will do anything and everything in your power to make the one that you love happy."

-Unknown.

* * *

His eyes widened upon seeing her. Not with love and relief as they might once have, but with pain and shock and fear before his guard came up, masking what he was feeling. His gaze darkened as he took in the sight of her, and Sara felt uncomfortable at the cold scrutiny. A muscle twitched in his cheek below the right eye and she saw him tighten the hold he had on the bag slung over his shoulder. He didn't speak. He didn't open his arms to her or make the slightest move toward her. He just stood there, rooted to the spot, looking at her as he would a ghost. Not quite sure whether she was real or not.

Even though they stood so near, a mere couple of feet apart, the distance between them had never felt so wide to Sara. She could tell her presence there was the last thing he wanted, the last thing he needed in his life. And from his point of view, it probably was. His expression shifted, and all of a sudden he almost looked resigned to her being there, as though he'd been expecting it. And maybe he had, she figured. Maybe he had been waiting for her to come to him. It just took her too long a time to realise that coming to him was what she needed to do. Hopefully, she wasn't too late.

She gave him a tremulous smile as her eyes filled with tears. Maybe everything would be all right once he had got over his shock at seeing her. She just needed to be patient with him, give him time to get used to the idea that she was back. She took an involuntary step toward him, but he stepped back, lifting the hand holding the mail in front of him as though warding off a threat. Sara swallowed back her dread and stopped dead in her tracks, her heart racing as she stared at him, taking in every details of him. He had changed so much since she had last seen him, she hardly recognised him.

Everything about him was different: the way he dressed, the way he looked, even the way he stood, slightly hunched as though weighed down with pain and sadness. The tan sports jacket he wore over a cream button down shirt and navy pants was nice, but new. She'd never seen it before. His hair was very short and very white, shorter and whiter that she'd ever seen it. He had grown his beard again, and it too was white, not a speck of grey in it, and it did nothing to hide how much weight he'd lost. His face was drawn underneath it, gaunt even, his eyes a little sunken. They looked dull and lacklustre too, and tired, so very tired and unhappy.

And she wondered whether when he looked at her he saw the exact same thing. She certainly did when she looked at herself in the mirror. She too had lost weight following the breakup and she'd needed more and more makeup to cover the ever darkening circles under her eyes. Sleep wouldn't come unless she took pills and she wondered now whether the prescription drugs she had found in his kitchen were sleeping pills.

He looked away first, glancing over to his left toward the rest of the apartment, scanning quick eyes everywhere as though checking everything was as he had left it. Or maybe, she figured, he was checking he hadn't left anything lying around she shouldn't have been privy to. Then he turned his head back toward her, refocusing at the kitchen beyond. She saw his eyes flicker nervously this way and that, again checking, before he brought them back to her face. Again, she tried swallowing the tight ball in her throat that wouldn't budge.

"Sara," he finally said in a surprised gasp, as though he'd only just remembered her name, "What are you doing here?"

His voice was soft, her name but a whisper on his lips, but there was a trace of weariness to it, a suspicious edge as if he didn't trust her or her motives for being there. Hank sidled up to him and he reached down his hand, scratching the dog behind the ears as he absently returned the greeting. This cold and distant reception wasn't the reunion she'd been hoping for. Oh, God no, far from it. Unlike when he had come to her in Costa Rica, there would be no tears of joy this time, no welcoming her with open arms.

Maybe he was playing it cool, because he was still riled up by her ultimatum, or maybe he simply had moved on. Despite her heartbreak Sara knew that it would serve no purpose to act all melodramatic, turn on the tears and beg him to take her back. Not that that was her style anyway. She still didn't understand the true reasons for the breakup, and before she laid all her cards on the table she needed to ascertain whether she had competition.

"I―I know this visit must be a shock to you," she said, forcing a trembling smile. "I'm sorry. I―I should have called first. I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that."

His eyes flickered away from her face. "How did you get in?"

"Madame Louboutin," she said, and swallowed. "She let me in. She…didn't seem to know about us." The last word died on her lips. "She―"

"She doesn't know," he said, the harshness in his tone startling her. His eyes flicked downward as his brow furrowed before looking up again sharply. "Has something happened to my mother?" he asked, suddenly fearful, "Something you couldn't tell me on the phone? I mean―I haven't spoken to her in a while." He ran a shaky hand over his cropped hair and sighed. "I guess I've been busy, a little out of touch. Is she―"

Sara raised her hand to cut his flow of words and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "Betty's fine. Well, as far as I know she is." She let her words drift with a shrug. "I'm not so good at keeping in touch with her either."

A look of utter bewilderment replaced the fleeting relief that had crossed his face when she told him that his mother was fine. "Then why are you here?"

Her shoulder lifted again; wasn't it obvious? She reached out a hand to him, only to snatch it back when he pulled away. "I came to see you. I―" She almost said that she was sorry for giving him an ultimatum, that she missed him, but then she thought of all the changes in his life, of the other woman, and she took a breath, stopping herself before she unravelled completely. "I came because I need answers, Gil."

His expression hardened, and he let out a long fed-up sigh. Silently stepping past her into the kitchen, he slid his keys into his jacket pocket and dumped his bag and mail on the table before reaching for a glass from the rack and filling it with tap water. His movement were jerky, and she took a little comfort in knowing that he was as nervous and unsettled as she was. Maybe shock was making him act all cold and distant. His back to her, he took a small sip of the water and then another one before finally turning toward her.

"What answers?" he said, leaning against the worktop. He drank another small sip and slipped his left hand into his pants pocket. If he was aiming for a casual pose he was failing miserably. "I thought we said all there was to say on the phone. There is no us anymore, Sara," he reiterated, briefly turning to put the glass down in the sink. "I thought I made that clear."

Sara opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off.

"It's for the best. This," he said, waving his right hand between them, "was making us both unhappy. I've moved on, and you need to do the same."

"I don't believe you."

His lips pulled into a sad smile and he gave an empty laugh. Hank who sitting on his hind legs was watching the conversation with interest gave a little whine and Grissom reached down to him with a fond smile. "You can believe what you want," he said, and stroked his hand over Hank's head, "but that's the way things are." He looked up, meeting her gaze dead on. "We want different things out of life. You're young and vibrant with a whole future in front of you, a career. You've made a life for yourself in Vegas - a new life, a good life." His shoulder rose. "I understand."

"No, you don't."

"Don't I?" he countered calmly. "I like it here and you don't. What more is there to understand?"

His speech, his argument, sounded researched, rehearsed, as if he'd prepared it lest such a confrontation arose. "I still don't believe you," she argued.

"They've asked me to stay on, and I said yes."

Her head was shaking. "You gave up everything." The words caught and she sucked in a breath before starting again. "You gave up everything for me. Work you loved, your career, your friends―"

"What friends?" he queried in a quiet scoff and turned his face away.

But Sara was on a roll, and barely heard him. It was her turn now, her turn to offload and she would say all the things she had travelled half-way across the world to say. "―you left it all so we could make a fresh start." Tears sprang in her eyes. "I should have done the same for you. I can see that now."

He glanced at the door, and then up at the wall clock above it. "I haven't got time for this," he interrupted with an impatient sigh. "You need to go. I have an appointment in half-an-hour that I can't miss."

His words were so cold, so detached and final, piercing right through her heart. She paused and nodded her head. "Can we meet later?" she tried hopefully, "Afterwards. I've come all this way to talk. Can we please sit down and talk?"

"There is nothing to talk about," he said in another long sigh. "Everything you said on the phone was true. And it took for you to say the words, for me to realise that we couldn't go on the way we were. We were so deeply unhappy, Sara."

"Are you happier now?" she countered heatedly. "Because I'm not." She paused and attempting to rein in her emotion blew out a breath. Then she gave him a soft, encouraging smile. "Let's have dinner. See what happens. That's all I ask."

"Dinner?" he repeated in a small, bemused smile, and swallowed. His eyes flicked over to the door again. "I don't think so."

She felt her temper rise at how obvious he was being, glancing toward the door every five seconds. He wanted her gone, out of the apartment and out of his life. And then it suddenly occurred to her that maybe there was another reason. "Are you expecting someone?" she challenged with a sad sneer of realisation. "Is that why you keep looking at the door?"

Her tone of voice, or maybe the fact that he had been caught out startled Grissom. He stared at her at length then, and she saw something shift in his gaze before it flicked away nervously. He took in a deep breath, which he let out slowly. "Her name's Francine," he said quietly, and looked up straight at her. His shoulder lifted in a helpless shrug as though telling her that she'd asked for it.

His words hit her like a slap in the face. After all they'd been through, after all the years it took for them to get together, for him to finally let her into his heart, and he'd already moved on, let someone else into his life, into his heart. She hadn't wanted to believe it, but there it was – the truth, from the horse's mouth. She'd pushed him into a corner and for once he hadn't disappointed. She'd never known him to be so cold-hearted.

"No," she gasped, her head shaking as she struggled to accept the idea, "No."

Her gaze averted, flicking to the evidence all around her – the irises in the vase, the bowl of fruit and more importantly the bananas only just visible from her vantage point and finally the pan full of homemade soup, _fresh_ homemade soup – until she couldn't see any more for the tears in her eyes. What else would she have uncovered in the rest of the apartment? She felt faint and dizzy all of a sudden, drained of strength, and ill. And so very alone. Blindly, she reached out a hand to the chair tucked under the table and steadied herself.

Grissom made no move to come to her, comfort her, fold her in his arms and make everything better again. She took a breath, and then another, but the queasiness wouldn't go away. "I shouldn't have come," she said, and made herself square up her shoulders and stand up straight. "I thought we could…I thought we could just talk. Maybe if we talked…" She clamped her mouth shut, wiped at her eyes and looked up sharply at him. His head was bowed, looking down at his feet. He made no move toward her, and finally understanding that they were truly over she turned away from him and left.

His hand on her arm cut her escape short. "Where are you staying?" he asked softly.

She looked down at his hand around her upper arm, his left hand, the one he'd kept in his pocket all along, and felt her heart break. He had taken his wedding ring off. This time there would be no turning back.

She twisted her arm out of his soft grasp and turned around sharply, rounding on him. Her face was inches away from his. "What do you care where I'm staying?" she said through gritted teeth.

A look of deep sorrow filled his already shiny eyes. "Sara, I care. Of course I still care."

She shook her head and fixed him with a wide, unwavering stare that had him avert his eyes shamefully. "Not enough." Her lips trembled then pinched, and she turned away and walked out of the apartment without a backward glance. Winded and unable to catch her breath, she stopped at the top of the stairs.

She heard Hank's nails clicking on the hardwood floor on the other side of the door and then a mournful whimper and a whine as though he was calling after her. Then she heard Grissom's quiet voice, trying to soothe him, and turning toward it she held her breath. The door handle lowered slightly as though he'd put his hand to it. Maybe he'd had a change of heart, she thought. Maybe he was coming after her to tell her he'd made a mistake. So she waited. And waited with bated breath for him to lower the handle fully and open the door, but he never did.

Sara swallowed her tears, wiped her eyes and then slipped her sunglasses back on. In her haste to leave, she forgot all about the book burning a hole in her purse.


	4. Chapter 4

"But true love is a durable fire

In the mind ever burning;

Never sick, never old, never dead,

From itself never turning."

-Sir Walter Raleigh, British poet and explorer.

* * *

Sara didn't remember taking refuge in Saint-Nicolas-du-Charbonnet's Church, but there she was, sitting on a pew at the back, staring at the familiar stained glass window over the altar. Sunlight streamed into the church through it, casting a shimmering mosaic of shapes on the ground. Her eyes were dry, but unseeing of the beauty all around.

She liked it there though, had always done. How many times had she pushed that heavy exterior door in the past, stepping into a cool haven of peace and tranquillity so far removed from all the activity outside? She wasn't a religious person, but she'd always enjoyed the opportunity for reflection and meditation this particular church afforded her.

Grissom and she had never attended any of the weekly services there, but they had spent many a lazy afternoon wandering around the large church, poring over the centuries-old history and architecture, the paintings, sculptures and icons scattered all around it, colourful murals and stained windows too. Many an evening had been enjoyed listening to concerts of live classical or organ music there.

Her eyes filled as the recollections multiplied. And as she sat there, she never felt more alone. Yes, she was to blame. _She_ had left, and voluntarily, and now she was paying the cost. The drop in temperature inside the church made Sara repress a shiver, and instinctively she wrapped her arms around herself. She felt cold, cold and abandoned. But she felt betrayed too, and angry. _He_ had called the end of their marriage after all, not her.

She had a simple choice to make: fight for what was hers, or go back to Vegas. Heather's words came to her again giving her strength. She blew out a breath and brushed quick hands under her eyes. She mustn't be weak, she told herself. She had beaten worse odds in the past. She hadn't come all this way to give up at the first hurdle. He said that he had moved on, but she didn't believe him. She knew him better than to think he would have learned to trust someone else and let himself love someone else so quickly.

She also knew that he wouldn't lie to her. He might manipulate the truth to suit his purpose, but he wouldn't tell an outright lie. She had no doubt that right at that moment he was getting ready to meet a woman called Francine. But who was she? Sara racked her brain, but the name meant nothing to her. She didn't recall his ever mentioning that name, even in passing. But then again, their conversations toward the end had been sporadic to say the least.

Would Madame Louboutin know her, she wondered? And what excuse would Grissom have given her to explain his wife's toing and froing, the fact that she was in Paris but not staying at the apartment? The old woman must have noticed that neither wore their wedding band anymore and drawn her own conclusions. Seeing his finger bare had brought home how far apart they'd become. That wasn't something she had expected, and it had hit her far harder that his admitting that there was another woman. Maybe, she thought despondently, he had moved on after all.

Sara took in a fraught breath, and then another, letting them out slowly as she tried to curb a fresh wave of anxiety. She picked up her purse and rummaged inside it for the jewellery box she kept her own wedding ring in. She opened it with shaky hands and stared at the plain gold band for a long moment before pulling it out of the box and slipping it on the end of her finger, only to keep it there as she realised she had lost the right to wear it the day she had taken it off.

The church door opened and shut with a resonating bang. Voices filled the laden silence, cutting short Sara's musings. Sara bowed her head and self-consciously wiped at her eyes, then slipped the ring off her finger and back into the box, and the box safely back into her purse. Her heart felt heavy with sorrow. Slowly she got to her feet and left. Direct sunlight as she stepped out of the church made her avert her eyes to the ground and pull on her sunglasses.

A homeless man, a boy really, sat cross-legged on the concrete pavement against the wall. His hand was outstretched but he wasn't looking at her; he just stared into nothingness in front of him. Sara opened her purse for some change. Instead she pulled out the spare set of keys to Grissom's apartment. She must have tidied them away in her purse by mistake when she had taken Hank for a walk earlier. She would just have to let herself into the building and post them through his mail box. She found a few euros in loose change and dropped the coins in the boy's hand.

"Merci m'dame," the boy said, looking up toward her and she realised that he was blind, "Que Dieu soit avec vous." May God be with you.

Sara gave a faint smile and turned away. She was stepping off the curb to cross over to the other side of the street when the loud and prolonged beeping of a car horn startled her. Quickly, she stepped back onto the sidewalk and numbly turned toward the speeding Renault Clio that had only just missed her. A frown forming, she watched as the car came to a stop down the road just outside Grissom's building. A couple of quick tooting of the horn ensued, and Sara could only stare, wide eyes flicking between the car and Grissom's fourth floor windows.

Her heart was racing. The wait seemed interminable. When the heavy wooden door finally opened several minutes later and Grissom stepped out, Sara instinctively straightened her back, her senses on alert. He was clutching an overnight bag in his hand, one Sara recognised all too well. As though somehow sensing that he was being watched Grissom turned to look in her direction, and she took a step back against the wall in the shadows. He was looking as grim and miserable as she felt, which was of no consolation whatsoever.

Refocusing on the car, Grissom smiled and raised his hand in a small wave at the driver. The car door opened, and a woman got out. She kept her back to Sara, but from her vantage point Sara made out a small and very slim woman. She wore a pair of stylish dark pants and matching top. The red silk scarf she had tied around her head gave her a very French and chic look. She walked round the front of the car straight over to Grissom and they embraced.

Tears welled in Sara's eyes. How could he switch from cold and unloving toward her to warm and affectionate toward this woman he'd only just met? Such easy and public display of affection on Grissom's part added insult to injury. They parted, but Francine kept a possessive hand on his arm as they exchanged a few words. Grissom's face seemed to light up a little at something she said. Then she resumed her place at the wheel while Grissom opened the back door on the passenger side and tossed his bag in before taking his place next to her.

Sara remained standing on the sidewalk, staring at a cloud of exhaust fumes, long after the car had disappeared from sight. Her breaths were shallow, her eyes unbelieving of what she'd just witnessed. It hurt inside, as though a part of her had been ripped apart, leaving a gaping wound. How could she have been so wrong about him?

Then, she remembered the book. She would deliver it, and then leave. Go back to Vegas and leave him to his new life. As though held under a spell, Sara covered the distance to his building and used her key to enter the vestibule. She pulled the padded envelope out of her purse and tried posting it in his mail box. When it wouldn't fit she took the book out and tried slotting that in the box. It was too thick to fit through.

Before she knew it she'd walked up the four flights of stairs and let herself inside his apartment. Hank didn't come to the door to greet her, and after a cursory look she realised that the dog wasn't there. Probably at the Louboutins, she thought, remembering that Grissom had left with an overnight bag. The lump in her throat was becoming harder to shift.

The mail still lay unopened on the kitchen table, and she put the book next to it. A bowl with remnants of soup in it sat in the sink, the spoon discarded inside it; there were crumbs on the counter next to a bread knife, fruit missing from the bowl. He'd had some dinner, she surmised, which was odd really considering how early in the evening it still was and the fact that he was going out with Francine. Maybe he'd skipped lunch.

The bedroom door was ajar, and she pushed it fully open, taking in the clothes he'd been wearing earlier carelessly strewn on the bed, all confirming that he'd been in a hurry to leave. On the bedside table sat a half-full vial of pills next to a picture frame lying face down. Sara picked up the frame and stared at their smiling faces on their wedding day. Then she put it back down and scanned her eyes over the rest of the room. It was exactly as she remembered it. She ran her hand over the bed, his clothes, the books and paperwork on the bureau.

The antique chest of drawers on the opposite side caught her eye and she moved over to it before pulling open the top drawer. It was still full of the few things she had left behind – toiletries, creams, a bottle of perfume, a hairbrush, a pair of sunglasses as well as a few items of clothing. She turned the key on the old matching wardrobe and pulled hard at the door, which stuck. A couple of pretty dresses she had no use for in Vegas still hung there, as well as her coat.

Sara sat on the edge of the bed and sighed. She was deeply confused. On the one hand, he'd met someone else and claimed that he'd moved on and then he still kept a picture of them by his bedside and all her things. Why hang on to them? Why not bag them up, as she had his stuff? It just didn't make sense to her, not when he'd been so cold earlier. He didn't want her there though; that much was true. But why? What was he hiding? She took a cursory look in the bathroom, but by now she knew she wouldn't find any evidence that another woman was living or had ever stayed there.

She retraced her steps to the kitchen and flicked through the mail. Nothing stood out. She let her eyes linger over the irises with a sigh. Instinctively, she set about straightening up the kitchen. Her stomach made a gurgling sound, and she looked over at the leftover soup in the pan on the cooker. It was lukewarm. She didn't bother heating it up, she just poured it into the bowl she'd just washed. She found a chunk of French bread in the breadbox and broke it up to make croûtons. She hadn't eaten since her stopover in New York and she was starving. She figured he owed her that much.

Munching on an apple she stepped into the living area. She opened both windows and threw the shutters open wide, letting in warm evening air and muffled street sounds into the place. Birds chirruped intermittently outside. A theme song to a game show she recognised drifted in from a television nearby. She stared out of the window at the passing traffic for a moment. When she had finished her apple, she put the core on a coaster on the sideboard and automatically pressed her finger to the 'on' button on the stereo system nearby.

The CD inside whirred into life and she pressed play. Soon, the soulful, melodic voice of Nina Simone filled the room. Sara knew the album well, it was one of hers, and she skipped to track nine, the title track - _Ne Me Quitte Pas_. Don't leave me. The first notes began to play on the piano, transporting her back to times past, happier times in this very place. Her eyes filled again, and this time she let her tears spill. Exhausted and jetlagged, she sank down onto the couch and let her eyes drift shut and the music envelop her. By the time Nina got to the part where she begged her lover to give her a second change Sara was fast asleep.

Sara woke up with a start, cold and disoriented. Street lights were on outside, casting the room in an eerie orange glow. The only noise was that of a television nearby, and the sporadic sounds of faraway traffic drifting in on the cool night breeze. It took a moment for her to get her bearings, but when she finally did she jumped up to her feet, looking around her for signs that Grissom had come back.

He hadn't. And even though she had been expecting it she felt a sharp sting of disappointment. Automatically she pulled the shutters and closed the windows, switched on a side lamp. The time on the mantle clock read past midnight. She had been asleep for a little over six hours. With a heavy sigh, she ran her hands over her face, rolled the kinks out of her shoulders and back, and set about straightening up the room.

This sleep had given her some much needed clarity. She would return to her hotel room, but not to Vegas. She still had too many unanswered whys. Too many pieces that still didn't fit together. No, she wouldn't leave, not yet. Not until she had all the answers she needed to understand what had happened to them – what had happened to _him_. As she walked past the kitchen door on her way out she glimpsed the book on the table near the vase of irises, and paused. Without another thought she picked it up and slipped it back inside her purse.

She would wait to give him the book in person, and fight to get to the truth.

* * *

A/N: The Nina Simone album Sara listens to is called _Ne Me Quitte Pas_ and was released in 1999.

The song itself, _Ne Me Quitte Pas_ which means Don't leave me, was originally written and sung by Jacques Brel in 1959. YouTube the Nina Simone cover, it's beautiful. There's something about her voice, her accent when she sings in French that makes the song even more romantic, dramatic and sad. A well-known adaptation, with English lyrics by Rod McKuen, is _If You Go Away_. Both versions have been covered by tens of people over the decades. The French version is far bleaker though. ;-)


	5. Chapter 5

"True love doesn't mean being inseparable; it means being separated and nothing changes."

-Unknown.

* * *

Sara spent the rest of the night and all of the morning in bed in her hotel room reading _The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared_. After a nap, she showered and went out into the bright sunshine in search of a bakery for some food. As she walked the familiar streets, Sara unconsciously looked all around her searching the crowds on both sides of the sidewalk for him – them. She knew it was silly, but she just couldn't help it. She bought a vegetarian croque-monsieur, a side salad and a can of orangina, which she took to the gardens at the back of Notre Dame to eat.

She put a call in to Greg when she knew he would be busy and left a brief message to say she'd arrived safely. On the way back home – well, to her hotel – she stopped to browse at the bouquinistes stands on the left bank of the Seine between the Quai de la Tournelle and Quai Voltaire. She bought a couple of postcards – one for the lab and the other for her mother – and admired the second-hand antiquarian books and sketches that Grissom loved so much before the booksellers began to pack up their stalls for the day and she was forced to leave.

As a tourist she loved Paris. What wasn't there to love? So many places to discover, sights to see, museums to visit and gardens to stroll around, but once all that had been done she hadn't had much to fill her days. She wasn't a typical housewife, content to go to the market every day and look after the home. After the first few blissful weeks she had grown isolated, bored and restless too, especially when Grissom had been so busy establishing himself at the university.

She began to miss being at work and feeling useful. She missed her old life in Vegas too. And she missed her friends. Grissom had been encouraging when the opportunity has arisen for her to go back. They thought they could make it work despite leading two very separate lives, and they had managed for a while, a long while, but in the end it had proven too much. She gave her head a shake, ridding herself of this sudden, wretched melancholy that, if she let it, would soon overwhelm her, and picked up her pace.

Her steps unconsciously took her down Grissom's street. The shutters to his apartment were still fully closed, which meant that he still hadn't come home. It was Friday, a whole twenty-four hours since he'd climbed into Francine's car. He must have decided to cut classes and take a long weekend, she thought, which for him was quite out-of-character. Something else to add to the ever-growing list of out-of-character traits he now displayed.

She was debating whether to take another look at the apartment when the heavy door opened with a loud creaking sound and Hank came out, eagerly pulling at the leash when he spotted her. Sara's heartbeat quickened in anticipation. Madame Louboutin stepped out of the building and tugged Hank back to her side, only to loosen her grip when she noticed Sara standing there. Her face immediately creased into a wide, pleasurable smile, which Sara warmly returned before kneeling down to greet Hank.

"We were going for a walk," Madame Louboutin said in French, "but maybe…"

Sara looked up with surprise, and found the older woman regarding her with interest. "I'd love to," she replied, her smile widening in gratitude, "Merci."

"Take your time," Madame Louboutin said, holding out the lead and a small black dog poop bag to Sara, "There's no need to hurry back." She stared at Sara as she spoke, and Sara understood the subtext: that Grissom wasn't back and wasn't expected back either.

She gave the old woman a small smile and took the bag and lead from her. Then she set off in the opposite direction from where she'd come from. Their steps took them to the university and the various Ecoles around it, and again Sara found herself scanning the faces in the crowds for Grissom's. When they got back Madame Louboutin insisted on making some tea and Sara grudgingly accepted.

She was pleased to see that Hank was made to feel at home at the Louboutins, he went straight to the kitchen for a drink where his basket had pride of place in front of the window. Maybe he felt too at home, she mused after a moment and wondered how often the dog came to stay. She was waiting for her tea in the living room, bent over the framed photograph of a young boy when Madame Louboutin returned with an envelope.

"It's Rémi, my son," she said in French, "When he was little. He lives down in the south of France now, with his family."

Sara smiled and nodded politely. Madame Louboutin stared at the photograph for a moment longer before giving a start and handing Sara the envelope. "Monsieur Grissom," she said, "he said to give you this, if you came."

Frowning Sara took the proffered envelope and stared at her name written in his careful handwriting. The envelope was sealed, but she could feel the outline of keys inside it. "Merci," she said, glancing up at the old woman, who smiled and nodded before retreating to the kitchen.

With shaky hands, Sara opened the envelope and slid out the keys – Grissom's apartment keys. The note inside read, "Sara, this is your home too." A bit late for that, she thought with a sigh. And she realised that if he was happy for her to have the key it was because he had nothing to hide there. The gesture warmed her heart, though, because it showed he still cared. Slipping the keys and the note back in the envelope she followed Madame Louboutin in the kitchen. Water was reaching boiling point in the pan, and the old woman turned the heat off.

"Where is he?" she asked in French.

Madame Louboutin froze. Then she let out a long breath and looking up from the stove stared at a point on the wall straight ahead in front of her. "That, I cannot tell you," she said, and looked over at Sara. "I am sorry."

Sara couldn't tell if that was because she didn't know or because she'd been asked not to tell. It didn't matter. "Is he with Francine?" she tried in a quiet voice.

Madame Louboutin registered a look of surprise. Her eyes lowering, she nodded her head. "Madame Bouvier," she clarified and poured boiling water in an awaiting teapot. "I think it was her anyway," she went on after a while and looked over at Sara. Her eyes were sad. "I mean, I heard the car horn. She doesn't usually come in." She was about to say more when she thought better of it and redirected her attention on making the tea.

Madame Louboutin motioned for Sara to take a seat at the kitchen table and Sara numbly did, placing the envelope she was still clutching against a vase of pink carnations. Pondering those words, she watched as the old woman poured them each a cup of tea. Her mind was whirring, the name Francine Bouvier playing over and over in her head.

If she were back in Vegas she could run the name in every database at her disposition and do a background check on her. What would come up, she wondered? Probably not what she was most desperate to know. Silently the two women sipped from their tea and when pushed Sara politely accepted a couple of ginger biscuits. Soon afterwards, she made her excuses and left, leaving the keys and note against the vase on the kitchen table.

Grissom didn't come home until late on the Saturday. She just happened to be walking past when she noticed that his windows were open. The temptation to call on him there and then was strong but Sara resisted it. Her return had clearly been a shock to him, probably bringing about a lot of confusion to his ordered life. He'd need some time alone without Francine to think things through. She stood a moment longer watching his windows. It took a lot of strength and resolve for her to walk away, but she did.

The next day she woke early and determined, had a quick breakfast and then set off. She wanted to catch him before he left – well, if he had plans. It was Sunday after all. Saint-Nicolas' bells were ringing the nine o'clock mass. She had her finger poised over the button on the intercom to call his apartment when a man came out of the building.

Offering the man a pleasant "Bonjour monsieur," and smile, Sara slipped inside the building behind him. The door to Grissom's apartment itself didn't have a bell, and Sara gave it a knock. When after a second more forceful knock he still hadn't answered Sara leaned her ear against the door and made out the faint sound of classical music.

Worried he'd refuse to open the door, she used her key to let herself in before quietly closing the door after her. Puccini's _Madame_ _Butterfly_ struggled to be heard over the noise of the antiquated toilet being flushed. She crossed the hallway with purpose, only to stop hesitantly at the living room door. Hank looked up from his spot in the sun in front of the window and stood up languidly to greet her. She smiled at him, and bending down took a second to pat him. Papers were scattered all over the coffee table, a red pen discarded over the top of them indicating that Grissom had been busy grading. A glass of water, half-full, sat a little to the side next to medication.

"Sara," Grissom said with surprise, creeping up on her from behind, and she turned toward him with a start, "I thought you were Madame Louboutin."

She knew she needed to keep the mood light and pleasant this time; she didn't want him to feel backed into a corner or he'd shut himself off again. It was hard though, hard to be so close and not be able to touch him, just open her arms and give him a hug. He kept his distance, and afraid to upset the balance she did the same. His brow furrowed with puzzlement, and reading his thoughts she smiled and dangled the spare set of keys in his eye line.

"Ah, that explains it," he said, deadpan.

Now it was her turn to be puzzled. "Explains what?"

His shoulder lifted in a mild shrug. "The place was tidier when I got back than when I left it, that's all. And I was a bowl of soup short." He stepped past her into the living room, switched Puccini off and his back to her began gathering his work into a pile. "Madame Louboutin said she hadn't been, and you didn't take my keys, evidently because you already had your own set." He let his words sink, then looked back at her over his shoulder; was that the ghost of a smile she could see tugging at his lips?

Sara felt her heart skip a beat at the unexpectedness of his welcome. Such a sudden shift in demeanour was disconcerting, and she wasn't entirely sure how to play her part. "The soup was very nice," she said, her tone playful.

"I didn't make it."

She paused. "I didn't mean to keep the keys. I just…did it out of habit, I guess."

He gave her an absent nod, and she watched as he dropped down onto the couch with a wince. He lifted his eyes toward her, and stepping fully into the room she refocused a bright smile on him. "So…how's the course going?" she asked, nodding toward his work, when all she wanted to know was how _he_ was doing. She frowned; the glass of water was still there, but the box of pills had disappeared.

"Oh, you know," he replied, but she was only half-listening, "the kids are bright, interested. Finals are coming up in a few weeks. They―they should do well."

"They have a good teacher," she said after a beat too long.

He let out a deep sigh. "It's pain medication for my back. I hurt it a while back and..." he let his words trail with a shrug, and nodding she gave him a wan smile. He swallowed. "And Vegas?" he went on with fake enthusiasm.

Sara thought about Basderic and about how unhappy she'd been for far too long. "As deprived as ever," she said, and shrugged.

There, done with the pleasantries, she thought warily. But they were talking, and that was a start. They lapsed into an awkward silence, neither quite willing to meet the other one's gaze, and stalling for time Sara moved over to the open window and gazed out at the sprawling rooftops ahead.

"You took your ring off," he said, his bluntness catching her off guard.

Sara looked down to her hand on the sill, and whirled round toward him. "So did you," she levelled at him, lightly.

A smile flickered across his lips. "Why are you here, Sara?" he asked, his eyes boring into hers.

She forced a carefree smile and walked back toward him. "Well, to win you back of course," she said with fake levity.

His expression darkened and he sighed. "Sara―"

"Gil, please," she interrupted earnestly. "All I ask is that we talk. Properly." She positioned herself in front of him and smiled. "I don't want to fight with you. I just want to understand."

His shoulder lifted. His eyes flicked down and then back up to her face. "We can talk, Sara, but it's not going to change anything. Our lives were on different paths – _are_ on different paths. Trying to make them cross was proving impossible."

"I don't think we tried hard enough. I know I didn't."

He dismissed her words with a weak wave of his hand. "You need to accept things the way they are now. It's for the best."

"You keep saying that, but it's not true."

"We were both miserable," he argued in an impatient sigh, "you can't deny that."

She gave a thoughtful nod. "I'm not denying that, and that's why I came. I'm hoping―"

"I know why you came, Sara," he cut in fervently. "I know what you're hoping to achieve, but I've made up my mind. You're going to have to let this go – let _us_ go."

Her head was shaking stubbornly. "No."

Annoyance flashed across his face. "Sara, it's over between us."

"I don't believe you," she countered and levelled a gaze at him, a gaze he couldn't hold, and she knew she was right to persevere, that there was more than he was letting on.

Grissom took in a deep breath which he let out slowly. Then he reached across for the glass on the coffee table and picked it up. His hand was shaking as he brought it to his lips.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, quietly taking a seat in the armchair across from him so she could look at him straight in the eye.

He put the glass down. His gaze wandered away, eventually coming to a rest on Hank blissfully dozing in the sunshine. "To set you free," he said after a long moment, keeping his eyes on the dog and so quietly that she wondered whether she dreamed the words.

At long last, she thought, we're getting to the truth. She swallowed. "And what if I don't want to be set free?"

He levelled a measured stare at her. "It's not your choice to make."

"Isn't it?" she countered quietly. "You led me to believe there's another woman, Gil. Why?"

His lips twitched with a faint smile. "You asked me a question, and I answered it."

"Don't play games with me," she said. "Who is she? This Francine Bouvier, my _replacement_."

He didn't seem the least bit surprised that she knew. "A friend. Someone I've grown close to."

"You love her?"

The faint smile returned, a smile he tried to suppress but failed to. He looked over at her and shrugged. There was a twinkle in his eye, a spark of amusement that puzzled her. "I believe I do, yes," he answered finally.

"Like you love me?"

"Now who's playing games?" he asked, and sighed. "Sara, I don't know how else to make you understand. I―"

"She tried to run me over, you know."

His eyes narrowed in puzzlement. "Who did?"

"Your…_friend,_ Francine. On Thursday, outside Saint-Nicolas, when she came to pick you up."

His eyes filled with pain, then with fear. There was disbelief in his voice when he spoke. "You were there?"

Sara didn't let the fact that he seemed more upset by his being seen than by her almost being killed put her off. "I don't think she meant to, if that's of any consolation."

"Sara, please, you need to go home," he argued again, "And carry on with the rest of your life."

Home, she pondered sadly? She was home there, with him. She felt tears rise and she blinked them away. "Not until I know the truth."

He had a moment's pause, and briefly she wondered whether she had finally worn down his resolve. "You know all there is to know," he said at last, looking and sounding increasingly more anxious, and she gave an inward sigh. He made to push up to his feet and Sara knew she didn't have much time left until he asked her to leave. He was blowing hot and cold on her, and she couldn't for the life of her understand why.

"Okay," she said, and she saw him relax in the chair, "I will go back to Vegas. After we've gone out to dinner."

He burst into a chuckle of disbelief. "Dinner?" he exclaimed, and sighed. "Dinner's not a good idea."

"A meal between two friends, Gil, that's all. We are still that, aren't we?" She paused, gauging for his reaction before adding, "Beside, as I recall you still owe me a birthday meal."

"You don't give up, do you?"

"I almost did," she almost replied, but instead tossed a wide, dancing grin in his direction. "You know me better than to ask that." The corner of his mouth twitched up, and that was when Sara knew she had him. "Gil, it's just dinner. Call it a farewell dinner if you wish. My treat even, and then I promise to go back to Vegas."

Grissom regarded her with such downcast eyes that a lump formed in her throat. She could tell he wanted to, so why was he denying himself that pleasure? His mouth opened and then closed and she thought he was about to refuse again when his face lit up with a resigned smile and he slowly nodded his head at her.

The widest and most incredulous smile spread on her face. "Yeah?"

He nodded again, this time more confidently. His smile broadened. "Yes."

Sara felt tears sting the back of her eyes. "All right," she almost sing-sang, and pushed to her feet, ready to beat a hasty retreat lest he changed his mind. "7.30, tonight. That place on rue de Monge we both like."

His smile trembling, he gave her another nod. Without thinking she leaned down and wrapped her arms around him in an awkward hug. A hand reluctantly came up, draping across her back, and she squeezed him to her a little tighter. Only then did she realise how thin he was under the baggy clothes. When she pulled back he was looking away. His lips were pinched, his eyes wet with tears. She stared at him, a million questions poised at the tip of her tongue, but when her own emotion threatened to spill she left.

She would get to the truth whether he liked it or not.


	6. Chapter 6

"True love is sacrifice. It is in giving, not getting; in losing, not in gaining; realising, not in possessing, that we love."

-JP Vaswani.

* * *

It was with a heavy heart that Sara closed the door on Grissom. She felt sad, not for herself, but for the deep sorrow she had glimpsed in him. He was torn inside, torn and tormented. He still loved her, she had no doubts about it, his reaction at the hug speaking more words that he could ever utter, but she couldn't fathom why he would deny himself that love and why he would decide that she needed to be set free. Sure, they had been having marital difficulties, the long distance between them not facilitating their already existing communication problems, but the love they felt for each other surely transcended all that.

Did he truly believe her to be so unhappy as to want out of the marriage altogether? Was that it? Was it some kind of heroic and grand gesture on his part? But now that he knew she didn't want out, why continue with the pretence? And what about Francine, she couldn't help wondering? Why involve her in all this? She wasn't so naïve as to believe they could – and would – reconcile all their differences over one meal, but she hoped they could begin to lay some new foundations.

The streets were eerily quiet as she strode down them, as if the neighbourhood had decided on a collective lie-in. She took a left at the intersection, and it was with a slight spring in her step that she headed toward the métro station. She would go shopping for a new dress for their dinner date. She had brought few clothes with her and her only decent outfit could do with a wash.

Unfortunately, Paris wasn't Vegas and when she got to her destination she found the Galeries Lafayette closed on a Sunday, as were all the other shops around. Feeling somewhat deflated, she trudged back to the métro station and took a train toward Montmartre, her favourite part of the city. She had the whole day in front of her to do as she pleased, and what better place than on top of the world? Well, not quite, but certainly the highest point in Paris.

She set off at a leisurely pace up the three-hundred more steps to the basilica of the Sacré-Coeur at the top of the hill and found a clean concrete step there where she could sit and catch her breath, soak up the sun and the view. It was magnificent. Her spirits lifted again. Even better by night, she recalled from one of her many wanders there with Grissom. Harp music was playing somewhere, the soft melody only just drifting up to her. A clown was riding a unicycle and juggling pins up ahead, a small crowd of tourists gathered there watching his antics.

Her gaze wandered back to the horizon, her thoughts invariably returning to her husband. Why, why, why, she asked herself again, why was he pushing her away? Come on, Sara, think, she admonished sternly. What about the pills he'd desperately tried to hide from her? And the others she'd seen in the kitchen and in the bedroom. How did they fit into all this? He said his back hurt and she was sure that he hadn't lied to her. Was old age catching up with him? Was that it? He was pushing sixty after all. He kept going on about how young and vibrant she was, how she had a whole career and a life in front of her. Maybe he thought he was holding her back.

The thought made her angry. The age difference had always been a bigger deal for him than for her, and now she couldn't help wondering whether the distance between them had made past insecurities resurface. Her eyes focused on a little girl that was counting the steps to the top in Spanish, behind her a young couple holding hands and watching her fondly. Sara smiled, and thought about a future that could have been for them, but would never be. Was that why he needed to set her free? Because he thought he wasn't giving her what she wanted out of life?

But none of that explained his weight loss. Could that be merely the consequence of healthier eating, she pondered? Dieting even. She remembered remarking he had lost a little weight as far back as the previous fall. Could heart trouble have precipitated the need for a healthier diet? Could weight loss be a symptom of another condition? Maybe he was having some health issues he didn't want her to know about. With a sigh she pulled her phone out of her purse and switched it on. She was trying to connect to the internet and research the matter further when the phone let out an ominous beep and turned itself off.

Sara cursed in frustration; she'd meant to borrow the plug travel adaptor they kept at the apartment. Maybe she'd sneak in again when he was teaching the next day and charge up her phone battery. Maybe she'd even do a little washing and some more investigating while she was at it. Or better still, she would ask him outright that night at dinner. She would confront him with the evidence and then reassure him, tell him that whatever it was didn't need to be the end of the world and certainly not the end of their marriage, that they would cope with it together, as a couple. That was what she would tell him.

Filled with a new sense of purpose, she pushed up to her feet and wiped her hands over the seat of her pants, pushed her sunglasses higher up her nose and continued on right up to the very top of the hill. She wouldn't look round the basilica, not today. Instead, she walked round the side of it down cobblestone lanes to the Place du Tertre, the artists' corner.

There, she tightened her hold on her purse and joined in the hordes of tourists mingling to watch the street artists draw or paint or caricature, for a negotiable fee, of course. The rest of the day was whiled away in similar pursuits, pretending she was a tourist and wishing Grissom was with her. Wishing she had been a better wife for him, because ultimately she knew that if she had stayed with him and not gone back to Vegas when she did, she wouldn't be in this predicament now.

Sara smoothed down her new dress – bought in a small boutique in an insignificant neighbourhood she'd happened upon on her way back to her hotel – checked the time on her watch and pushed the restaurant door open, her eyes immediately scanning the main room for signs of her husband. He wasn't there, but then again she was early. A glass of red wine would help her relax before he arrived.

_Chez Emile_ was a small establishment on the corner of rue Monge and rue des Ecoles opposite Square Paul Langevin where they often took Hank for walks. Sara and Grissom had shared many a happy meal there, and she hoped that neutral grounds would help him open up to her. They liked the quiet atmosphere, the fact that it was off the beaten track and consequently only frequented by the locals. Family-run, the restaurant served traditional French food at reasonable prices for the area. More importantly, it served a varied vegetarian menu, no mean feat in France.

Sara hovered at the door uncertainly for a few seconds then took a few steps toward the maître d' who came to greet her. "Table pour deux," she said with a smile, "Au nom de Grissom."

The maître d'hotel's smile faded as he acknowledged her words with a nod. Quickly, he glanced over his shoulder and motioned to his colleague behind the bar before redirecting a forced smile at Sara. The barman immediately picked up the phone, dialling out. "Par ici," the maître d' then said, indicating a table set for two near the bar, and Sara followed him there with a puzzled frown. The maître d' pulled the chair out for her, and chiding herself for her suspicious mind she sat down on it before ordering a glass of house red.

Sara cast a surreptitious eye over her surroundings, thinking it must be a year at least since she and Grissom had last eaten there. The place hadn't changed at all. Ambience music played softly in the background. A few patrons were already seated, eating or perusing menus. Two elderly couples were standing at the bar, chatting over apéritifs. She reached inside her purse for the book which she placed under the napkin folded in the shape of a fan across from her. If anything the small gift might ease some of the tension and give them something trivial to talk about.

The waiter returned with her wine and a small terracotta dish of assorted olives. Sara thanked him with a smile and picked up her glass, twirling it in the light, staring at the rich colour as she tried, vainly, to relax. She took a sip, her eyes automatically moving to the door, still blissfully unaware. She was stabbing another olive when the maître d''s voice startled her.

"Madame Grissom?"

"Oui," she said, bringing the back of her hand up to her mouth as she finished chewing.

"Téléphone pour vous."

Sara's heart sank; she didn't need a master in Theoretical Physics to know who the caller was. She paused, and swallowing hard at the wave of foreboding that swept over her took the proffered phone. "Merci," she said with a small smile, waiting until the maître d' had retreated to bring the receiver to her ear. She turned away from prying eyes and cleared her throat. "Gil, is that you?"

"I've been trying to get a hold of you all afternoon," he said, sounding tired and exasperated. Sara opened her mouth to respond, but before she could even utter a word he added, "You're not picking up your cell. I even called round all the hotels I could think of in the area so I could reach you."

"I'm sorry," she said, piqued at his accusatory tone, "But the battery on my phone's run out, and I haven't got an adaptor for the charger."

"Sara, listen," he said in a sigh and paused, only confirming what she already knew, that he was bailing out on her. She should have known he'd only agreed to the meal to get her out of the apartment. The silence stretched between them, and she was about to speak when she heard him take a sharp breath, and then exhale it slowly. "The reason I'm calling," he said in a pant, "I'm not going to be able to make dinner."

Sara's eyes closed; her lips pinched anxiously. "Don't do this to me."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I really wish I could be there, but I'm not feeling well."

"Are you home?" she asked, and then not waiting for a reply as she pushed to her feet, "I'm coming over."

"No," he almost cried. "Don't."

Sara glanced toward the restaurant window on hearing the siren of an ambulance speeding past the restaurant. Turning away from it, she brought the phone closer to her ear. "Gil―"

"I'm sorry to have to disappoint you," he said, cutting her off, "I really am. But I've a migraine. You know how I get."

She picked up her purse. "Then all the more reasons for me to come over."

"Sara, no, please. I don't want you to."

"And why not?" she challenged, her voice rising in impatience. There was a pause on the line, and she knew he was racking his brain for an answer that wasn't the truth. "Don't lie to me. Please," she said in a small, choked up voice. "I know something's up with you, and I know it's not a migraine."

She heard him let out a long breath, and suddenly feeling weak at the knees she sank down onto her chair. "I'm in bed," he said at last. His voice was low and pained, breathless even, and she knew that this time he was speaking the truth. "I've been unwell all day, nauseous and faint. I must have picked up a bug."

She wiped a rough hand over her eyes. A migraine, and now a bug? "A bug, huh?"

"I got some pills. I was just waiting for the restaurant to call to take them. They'll knock me out."

"Gil, I'm going to come over anyway. Make sure you're okay."

"Please don't," he pleaded in such a dejected voice that she wavered.

The line fell silent, then she heard a distant female voice taking in French over what she assumed to be a badly muffled receiver. Francine was with him, that was why he didn't want her there. Tears rose, prickling the back of her eyes. Why did he trust this Francine more than he did her, she wondered?

"Sara, are you still there?" he asked, coming back on the line. To her non-reply he added, "I'm sorry. I'll call you tomorrow. I'll be better then."

Sara disconnected the call before he did and calmly put the receiver down on the table. Then slowly, she pushed her chair back, grabbed her purse and the book and made her way to the bar. There, she waited for the barman to be free, asked to pay for her drink and left. Only when she was outside did she allow her tears to fall. She was sure that later she would feel angry and betrayed, but for the moment she just felt numb. Numb and abandoned.

Why was it so damn difficult to love and be loved by him?


	7. Chapter 7

"How far should a person go in the name of true love?"

-Nicholas Sparks, _The Choice_.

* * *

Sara walked the streets for a good hour, trying to clear her head and make sense of her feelings, of the turmoil in her life, before she reached her destination. She should be angry, but she wasn't. She just couldn't muster the strength or the motivation. Grissom had sounded genuinely ill on the phone, his voice betraying his anxiety at not being able to make the meal. She felt betrayed though, deeply betrayed and disappointed at his need to keep her in the dark, at his inability to trust her completely. And that hurt. When did he stop trusting her, she wondered sadly, and why?

Francine's red Renault Clio was parked at the curb opposite his building. Sara cupped her hands to the passenger side window and looked in, but made out nothing of interest. She let out a long breath and looked up at the fourth floor windows across the street, unsure whether to go up and confront him when she knew he wasn't alone. She would be at a disadvantage, and what would she say? She didn't want to fight with him, she just wanted to understand. She just wanted for him to open up to her and be honest. Why couldn't he just be honest with her?

With one last backward look Sara walked away, headed to her hotel. As she rounded the corner past Saint-Nicolas' church she slowed down her pace a fraction. The main entrance doors were open wide, beckoning her in. A few people, talking and laughing animatedly, stepped out. They paused, kissed each other goodbye, and then went off their separate ways. Sara dithered, hovering near the entrance uncertainly for a moment before slipping in at the back.

The church was almost empty, probably about to shut for the night. Overhead lights were still on. She would take a moment to collect herself and then leave, go back to her hotel and decide on a new strategy. Her gaze settled on a couple of men standing near the pipe organ to the left of the altar. They were talking loudly, too loudly for Sara's liking, their resonating voices interfering with her thought process. A lone woman was kneeling on the front pew on the right-hand side. Her head was bowed down, seemingly in prayer.

Sara stared, unseeing, in front of her, the same question going round and round in her head: should she go to the apartment and confront Grissom. If he was ill, she wanted to be there for him, but if that woman was there…the rest of her thoughts trailed off in a sigh and she refocused on her surroundings. The woman at the front looked up and slowly signed herself. Then she pushed to her feet with some difficulty and holding on tightly to the pew turned to leave.

Sara let out a gasp of surprise and quickly dipped her head on recognising the woman who had picked up Grissom on Thursday. Her heartbeat quickened, her right hand clenching and unclenching in unease. What should she do? Should she make herself known and confront Francine there and then? What would she say, though? Would the woman even understand English?

Francine's echoing footsteps became louder as she came nearer. The temptation to look up and put a face on the other woman was too great. Keeping her head down, Sara lifted her eyes toward the woman and watched her approach. Francine was looking distracted as she walked, and Sara took a moment to study her. She wore a pair of black pants and a loose fuchsia blouse with a matching scarf tied around her head. She was small, frail even, and Sara struggled to determine her age, but guessed she was well into her sixties.

Francine's face looked as though it had been painted on her; she had pencil lines where her eyebrows should be and too much pink blush on her cheeks that did nothing to hide their gauntness. The rouge on her lips was far too bold, contrasting starkly against the paleness of her skin. She looked like a china doll, Sara realised, and looking at the headscarf more closely she could now see that it covered a bald head.

Francine looked to her right unexpectedly and met Sara's gaze dead on. She frowned, and then slowly stopping in her tracks tilted her head to the side as she considered Sara. Both women stared at each other, neither making a move toward the other, but Sara knew Francine had recognised her. She didn't feel threatened by Francine at all or even any animosity toward her; she only felt pity. Pity for someone whose days, she understood, were sadly numbered.

Francine cast her eyes upwards as if thanking the heavens and smiled a wide, beautiful smile that lit up the whole of her face, then shook her head and refocused that wide smile on Sara before decisively closing the distance to her. There was a spark of mischief in her eyes now, a brightness and zest for life that belied her medical condition. Swallowing the constriction in her throat, Sara averted her gaze uncomfortably.

"I was all for coming to meet you at _Chez Emile_," Francine said cheerfully. She spoke faultless British English with only the slightest trace of a French accent giving away her nationality. "But Gilbert nearly had kittens when I suggested it." She pronounced Gilbert the French way with a soft Jee sound and a silent T. "And we couldn't have that, could we?"

The image of Grissom having kittens made Sara smile and she looked up to the woman with surprise.

"And there you are now," Francine went on, opening out her hands in a Gallic shrug, "Sent from above." She paused and laughed, and her smile somewhat fading stared openly at Sara. "Sara," she then said solemnly, and frowned, "May I call you Sara?"

Caught in Francine's whirlwind enthusiasm Sara could only numbly nod her head in reply.

"May I sit down please?" Francine asked without missing a beat.

Sara's gaze narrowed imperceptibly. Again she nodded and made some space for the other woman.

"I'm sure you must be finding this…" Francine sat down, then waved her hand about, "whole encounter very odd, but…"

"How did you know who I was?" Sara asked, finding her voice at last.

Francine gave Sara a knowing smile. She didn't reply straightaway. She let out a breath and turned her attention to the stained glass window over the altar in front of them. "Well," she began, keeping her eyes averted, "there's the picture he keeps on the bedside table for starters, and then the one in his wallet, and then because he thought neither did you justice he talked about you; described your smile, your eyes, your intelligence."

Sara realised then that she'd been wrong to think of Francine as a love interest for Grissom. It was clear from the woman's candid words that they simply were unlikely friends, allies in some way Sara still didn't fully comprehend. She cleared her throat to dislodge the thick lump inside it, but remained silent, unsure what to say, where to begin.

"Gilbert likes to come here too," Francine was now saying, interrupting Sara's thoughts, "he sits at the back and prays."

"Gil doesn't pray," Sara defended quickly.

A slow smile spread over Francine's face. She glanced at Sara out of the corner of her eye. "That's what he says, but I know he does. He prays for you. He prays for me, and for himself," she added in a murmur. Francine's expression darkened suddenly, and she turned toward Sara. "Where are you staying?" she asked earnestly.

Sara startled at the change of topic. "Not far from here," she replied, and shrugged, "A small hotel just off the Boulevard Saint-Germain."

Francine nodded. "He was worried about that. Got me ringing around all over the place this afternoon. He couldn't stand the thought of you sitting alone at that restaurant, waiting for him."

Francine's words rather than appease her made Sara feel completely inadequate. "You seem to know a lot about what's going on," she said defensively. "How long have you two known each other?"

Francine's eyes averted. "Not very long," she admitted, and swallowed. She looked uncomfortable all of a sudden, almost pained. "A few months. We met one wretched afternoon by chance. My chance." She brought her gaze back up and sought Sara's. "I have cancer, you see," she added with a sad smile, and Sara found herself holding the other woman's gaze with sympathy, "been battling with it for years now. And that day I'd been given more bad news." She forced a bigger smile, but it wavered sadly.

Sara offered Francine a warm smile. "I'm very sorry to hear that," she said in a quiet voice, feeling genuine pain for the other woman.

Francine waved Sara's concern away, adding brightly, "Oh, Docteur Fournier is great, but he's no miracle worker. He's done all he can for me and now I'm in the hands of God." She looked up to the heavens again and wiped at a tear from the corner of her eye before forcing another smile. "But listen to me. I've not even introduced myself yet." She turned her body round fully and extended a long bony hand at Sara. "I'm Francine, Francine Bouvier."

Sara returned the smile and weakly shook Francine's hand. It felt small in hers, and very cold.

"You mustn't lose hope, Sara, or trust appearances. Gilbert is a proud man."

"Gil," Sara amended with a smile. She'd never liked the way the French mispronounced his name. "He likes to be called Gil." Or Grissom, she thought despondently.

Francine burst out laughing. "Oh, I know that," she said breezily, touching Sara on the arm conspiratorially as if they were two long-time friends, and instead of feeling rebuked Sara felt amused. "He's tried telling me, but isn't it just so much fun teasing him?" She smiled brightly at Sara, before her expression became solemn again. "He is a proud man, and I've grown very fond of him, but he is also very stubborn and misguided, especially where you're concerned."

"He hasn't taken well to my return in his life," Sara said.

Francine's gaze lowered. "Are you back then?" she asked, and looked up. "Back for good?"

Sara's eyes narrowed, Francine's question giving her pause. Was she, she wondered? Was she back for good? Was that what Grissom wanted and had never asked? Was that why he was pushing her away, because he knew that ultimately she wouldn't stay?

Francine cleared her throat, cutting into her thoughts. "I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have asked you that. It's none of my business. I've taken enough of your time." She pushed to her feet, then closed her eyes and took a moment to steady herself.

"Are you all right?" Sara asked anxiously, immediately on her feet. She slipped one hand in the crook of Francine's elbow and the other one around her shoulders.

"I'll be all right in a minute," Francine answered in a quiet voice, "I think I stood up too quickly. It's been a long day, and I've been on my feet too long."

"Do you have far to go?"

Francine levelled a shrewd stare on her. "Are you asking me if I'm going back to Gilbert's?"

Sara's eyes lowered.

"I'm not," Francine replied. "I have my car. I'm okay now, you can let go of me. It's passed."

Sara nodded. "Can I drive you maybe?"

Francine's face softened with kindness. "That is very kind of you to ask, but I am fine. Titine knows the way home."

"Titine?" Sara queried with an arched brow.

"My car, Titine. It's well trained." Francine's smile was devilish and she winked at Sara. "You're a lot of fun to tease too."

Sara shook her head in disbelief. The two men that had been talking near the organ parted company, and soon the overhead lights went off, plunging them in dimness. "Let me walk you to your car," she said, before they were asked to leave.

"You want to make sure I'm well out of the way before you make your move, don't you?" Francine countered teasingly, as she filed out of the pew.

Sara's face darkened; she paused in her tracks. "Do you think I should?"

"Absolutely. Gilbert's an old mule. And you know what they say about mules?" Francine glanced at Sara over her shoulder, her expression playful.

Sara's brow lifted questioningly. "No, I don't," she said, a smile of amusement tugging at her lips.

"None but a mule denies his family," Francine provided, and paused. Sara indicated with her hand that they should proceed, and together they walked to the exit. "If you love him," Francine went on, "and I think that you do, then…just…don't waste any time. Life is too short."

Sara pulled and held the heavy wooden door open to Francine before following her out. Street lights were on now, giving off a gold aura all around. There was a chill in the air and Sara repressed a shiver. They walked to Francine's Clio in silence, Sara pondering Francine's words. Francine rummaged in her purse for her key and unlocked the car. She opened the door, hesitating before stepping in.

"You know," she told Sara, turning, "he really wanted to be there tonight. He didn't want to disappoint you again, but he was so weak he could barely stand."

Sara flashed a brief smile and nodded her head. She wouldn't ask Francine what was the matter with him. She couldn't face the truth, not yet, even if she suspected it. Besides, she would rather _he_ told her than a third party, however well-meaning they were. "I know," she said at last in a small smile.

Francine considered Sara for a moment longer before giving her a firm nod of the head. "I won't tell him we talked," she said, slowly clambering into the car. Sara frowned, but before she could question the older woman on what she'd meant by that Francine was pulling the door toward her. "Au revoir, Sara. It was nice meeting you."

Francine slammed the door shut and started the car. She glanced at Sara and smiling at her forced the car into first gear. Sara took a step back and watched Francine drive off and disappear round the corner. Without giving the matter anymore thought, she crossed the road, grabbed her set of keys from her purse and went home.

Sara gave the apartment door a quiet knock, then eased her key into the lock and let herself in, silently closing the door behind her. The apartment was immediately plunged in total darkness and Sara remained where she was until her eyes had adjusted. She wouldn't turn on the light until she knew that the bedroom door was shut. She heard Hank shake himself, then a door on her left creaked open and Hank quietly came sauntering over to her.

"It's me," she told Hank in a whisper, her face immediately softening with a smile of pleasure as she bent down to ruffle his coat. Her gaze flickered over to the bedroom for signs of Grissom, but there were none. "Have you been keeping an eye on him for me?" Hank was licking her face now and she laughed. "I love you too," she said in a chuckle as she warmly patted his side. Her smile faded as her eyes once again flicked toward the bedroom. "He's asleep, huh?"

Hank gave a wide yawn, as if in agreement, before turning around, headed back to the bedroom. Stopping at the door, he looked round over his shoulder at Sara as though asking her, "Are you coming, or what?"

Sara had a moment's pause, unsure of whether that would be the right thing to do. Again, she had that feeling she'd first had on being back at the apartment that she was somehow trespassing, but she pushed it away. She was determined and would find out what Grissom was so painstakingly trying to hide from her. She dropped her purse on the couch and noiselessly made her way to the bedroom.

Grissom was lying on his side facing toward her. The covers were pulled right up to his neck, and she knew someone had tucked him in after he'd gone to sleep. She should have felt jealous of Francine because of the intimacy she obviously shared with Grissom, but she didn't. She only felt grateful, grateful that he wasn't alone, that someone had been there for him when _she_ hadn't been.

On the bedside table sat a glass of water, full, and boxes upon boxes of pills next to the framed photograph of the two of them. In front of it was his wedding ring. She picked it up and slipped it on her finger. Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision, and as she stared at her husband, fast asleep, she wiped at them quietly. She reached out a shaky hand and lightly traced the outline of his profile face along his bearded cheek down to the corner of his mouth. He didn't stir. She let her fingertips hover there, barely skimming over his lips. He let out a quiet breath, a sigh almost, that sent shivers down her spine.

Wary of waking him she reluctantly pulled her hand back and stood watching him. He looked so relaxed and peaceful as he slept that it was difficult to imagine something was wrong with him, something so very wrong that he would deliberately choose to push her away and not have her in his life rather than tell her. He didn't wake, didn't stir, didn't give any sign that he felt her presence near him, seemingly well knocked out by whatever drugs he'd taken. It didn't matter. She could wait. She _would_ wait.

"I'm sorry I haven't been there for you when you needed me," she said in a choked up whisper, her tears falling again. Her hand lowered to his face of its own accord, and she softly touched around his eye. "Please, don't push me away. I want to help you, be there for you as I should have been all along. Let me in, please." She knelt down by the bed and laid the side of her face down on the edge of the mattress near him. "I love you, and I know you still love me. Whatever it is…we'll face together."


	8. Chapter 8

"She better liked to see him free and happy, even than to have him near her, because she loved him better than herself."

-Charles Dickens, _Barnaby Rudge_.

* * *

Sara wasn't sure how long she spent on the floor by his side watching him, waiting for something to happen. Part of her wanted him to wake so they could talk, the other part wanted to prolong the moment when she would be told the truth. Hank snored on in his basket at the foot of the bed, unsuspecting, while her mind reeled, busy putting together all the tiny pieces of the complicated puzzle Grissom had posed her.

She felt drained and listless, and hungry too. Her stomach gave a loud rumble that had her push up to her feet. Reluctant to leave, she gazed at him a moment longer before pulling herself away. She shut the door quietly and stood in the dark hallway with her hand on the handle, unsure of what to do next. She wouldn't leave the apartment, that much was sure; she couldn't leave him, not when he was so vulnerable. She would just have to face him in the morning, come what may.

She kicked off her shoes next to his by the coat rack and padded barefoot to the kitchen, automatically turning the less intrusive cooker hood light on. She found eggs and cheese, and a few slightly shrivelled mushrooms, and cooked an omelette that she soon devoured. The time on the wall clock read eleven twenty pm. So early still, she mused.

Another time they might just be returning from a night out, a nice meal followed by a leisurely walk along the river. They used to do that a lot. Paris was so beautiful by night, she remembered, its monuments illuminated with millions of lights reflected on the dancing waters of the Seine. She shook herself out of her melancholy and needing to keep busy set about tidying up the kitchen. All the while, her eyes kept being drawn to the boxes of medication neatly piled up by the fruit bowl.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, she picked up the top one, read the name and sighed. Giving the doorway a wary glance she opened the box, pulled out the notice and a strip of tablets that was almost empty, and began to try to decipher the French. Something to do with aiding digestion, she believed. The next box was more of the same, and the one below she soon discovered contained loperamide – an opiod drug used against diarrhoea.

It was another piece to add to the rest of the puzzle and it got the cogs in Sara's mind turning. Lost in thought, she broke a banana off the bunch in the bowl, peeled it and headed next door. In the dark she opened both living room windows, throwing the shutters wide. Evening air rushed in, cooling her flushed face. Street lights shone in, casting the room in soft shadows, reflecting her subdued mood. All was calm and quiet outside, except for the occasional sounds of passing traffic near and far. Birds twittered in the distance, seemingly calling to each other.

Sara absently ate the banana while staring out of the window, her mind drifting back to her encounter with Francine. The other woman had been so candid about her disease and the circumstances surrounding her meeting Grissom. Not long, she had said, a few months when she had been told more bad news. She and Grissom had to have met at the hospital, Sara figured. Where else would Grissom have struck up such an unlikely friendship so quickly? How long had he been hiding he was ill, she wondered? Had he known when he broke up with her? Could that explain why he hadn't fought to save their marriage at all?

She tried to cast her mind back to when they had last spent time together – physically together and not just over the phone. October, the previous fall, or was it September? She had trouble remembering exactly when it was, and that made her sad. But near enough ten months, she figured, ten long months that they had lost and would never get back. How could she have left it so long? They'd arranged that he'd come home for Christmas, but he had cancelled at the last minute. He'd picked up a bug, he'd claimed. She looked up, her gaze refocusing suddenly, her head shaking in disbelief. Had he known as far back as Christmas that something was wrong with him?

Anger flared up within her, anger and affront in equal measure. How dare he hide something as important and life-changing as an illness from her? And why, she questioned? Why would he choose to do that? Why cut himself off like that? Why deliberately choose to face all the pain and worry alone? Her eyes welled with tears, and she shuddered, her lips pinching tightly to silence her sobs. They were husband and wife for goodness' sake. They were meant to share everything together. They'd promised to love each other for better and for worse, in sickness and in health. Didn't those vows mean anything to him?

His voice filled her head, his quietly-spoken words echoing hauntingly. "We want different things out of life. You're young and vibrant, with a whole future in front of you, a career. You've made a life for yourself in Vegas – a new life, a good life." He'd said he wanted to set her free, and now she understood what he'd meant by that. Her anger redoubled, taking her breath away.

"Bastard," she muttered, angrily wiping at her tears, "you selfish bastard. How dare you make that choice for me?" All that time lost, she kept thinking, and she'd suspected nothing, months when she could have been by his side, loving him, helping him through his ordeal. How would he feel if the shoe were on the other foot? She stormed out of the room, ready to shake him awake and demand an explanation.

She made it as far as the bedroom door before she faltered. As quickly as it had flared her anger evaporated, leaving her suddenly lost and powerless. More tears spilled, but they were tears of sorrow now. Quietly, she cracked the door open and peered in, checking on him. He hadn't moved one inch, still facing on his side toward her with the covers pulled to his neck. He never slept this soundly normally, she thought with sadness. She pushed the door a little wider and stepped a little closer so she could see his face, see that he was still breathing. And he was.

It occurred to her then that when Francine had been at the church earlier, she hadn't been praying for herself, but for Grissom. And as she watched him in the dark and quiet she could no longer repress the thought: Cancer. He had cancer. The word echoed around in her head, and she scrunched her eyes shut at the searing pain it evoked. What else could it be?

Before she could think further, grief welled up inside her and she only just made it to the bathroom before she was violently sick. When she felt she had no more to bring up she pulled herself up off the floor and rinsed her mouth and face. A fresh wave of despair descended upon her, but she tried her hardest to push it away. She must keep strong and not jump to conclusions.

_Don't immediately assume the worst_, she told herself, _cancer needn't be terminal or fatal_. _It had to be in its early stages._ Most cancers were, if not resectable, treatable these days and with high success rates. Newer treatments were being developed every day, and improvements were being made among many standard treatment methods, she knew that. But in her heart of hearts she knew it had to be bad for him to deliberately resort to such extreme methods to hide it from her.

She wiped at her tears, pulled the cord on the razor light above the sink and stared at her pallid reflection in the mirror. This wasn't about her, or about what she was feeling. This was about him, and about this ordeal he'd been going through alone. He needed her to be strong. Not fall apart at the seams. What use would she be to him then? He needed her to be there for him. Her gaze averted shamefully as she was filled with guilt. For far too long she hadn't been there for him. Yes, she had a good life in Vegas, a job that fulfilled her and friends, good friends. But her life in Vegas wasn't complete when he wasn't there.

Exhausted, she returned to the living room, settling herself on the couch, absently massaging her feet and ankles. Morning seemed a long way off still. She repressed a shiver, and then another, and got up to shut the windows. His old navy Hope Athletics sweater was lying on the arm of the chair and instinctively she picked it up to put on. She brought it to her face and took a deep breath of it, filling herself with his scent. She slipped it on over her dress and closing her eyes wrapped her arms around herself, finding a little comfort in that simple gesture.

On the coffee table was his iPad, and she stared at it for a moment. Surely, there would be no harm in checking his browser history, especially if it held the key to knowing exactly what was wrong with him. He needn't know she had. That way she could prepare herself, so that when he did tell her she was strong for him and ready. Her gaze flicking over to the doorway she picked up the iPad, lifted the leather cover off it and switched it on.

Enter password.

Letting out a long sigh, she began typing, trying out every word and its permutation that came to her mind, his name, hers, his parents' and Hank's, even going as far as typing in Francine and random Latin insect names she'd picked up over the years. All without success, and frustratingly she had to conceded defeat. Facing a long wait until morning, she settled herself onto the couch in as comfortable a position as she could manage in the circumstance.

But she tossed and turned restlessly, all the while checking the time, her thoughts churning. She thought back to her own ordeal, a whole night and a day spent in the desert trying to find her way home. And she had found it – or rather it had found her – before she had lost it again. Not this time. She got up from the couch, sore and tense, stretched the muscles in her neck and shoulders, and finally when she couldn't stand it any longer she went to bed.

He was still lying on his side, facing toward the door. Noiselessly, she padded to her side of the bed, got undressed and as quietly as she could pulled the top drawer on the chest of drawers for the night clothes she'd left behind. Then, she slipped under the covers next to him. For a moment she lay completely still on her back, staring at the darkened ceiling as she listened to his quiet and measured breathing. She didn't dare come too close, lest she disturbed him.

Out of the blue he began to stir. With a mumble he turned onto his back and then fully round so he faced toward her. Sara froze, hardly daring to breathe as she waited on tenterhooks for the moment when his eyes would open and he found her there. They didn't. He just stirred again, bringing one hand up as he buried his head deeper into his pillow. Sara was releasing a quiet breath when he moved again, settling himself closer to her.

Sara daren't move, not for a long moment, not until she was absolutely sure he was once again sound asleep. Her eyes felt tired and heavy, and she stopped fighting to stay awake. Instinctively, she turned onto her side, draping her arm over his midriff. Her head gravitated toward his shoulder, inching closer and closer until she could smell his familiar scent. She took in a deep breath, filling herself with the memories of him, of them together. She didn't notice the tears that fell from her eyes. By the time she fell into an exhausted sleep the first rays of daylight were just beginning to filter into the room, bringing a little warmth with them.

"Sara." His voice was quiet and soothing, a dreamlike whisper to her ear. Feather-light fingertips brushed against her face, tracing over her eyes, the ridge of her nose to the curve of her lips. She shivered and let out a soft moan of pleasure. His lips were wet and warm as they took over, slowly rekindling a dormant fire.

Her eyes sprang open, immediately locking to his. He was propped up on an elbow, watching her in the dawn light. His expression was solemn, a little guarded even, hesitant. He smiled at her then, a soft, ethereal smile. His hand came up to her face and pushed a strand of hair away from her eyes ever so slowly, ever so tenderly**. **His tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip nervously.

"Are you back then?" his eyes asked when he faltered with the spoken words, "Back for good?"

There was so much love, so much tenderness in his gaze that tears came to her eyes. All her worries, all her fears melted away, and it was just them in that one moment. She smiled up at him, then reached up with her hand toward him and kissed him. His lips parted, warm, welcoming and tasting of home, the kiss quickly becoming more urgent and passionate. Her eyes were closed, and for the first time in months she felt totally relaxed, her senses reawakened.

_Yes_, she thought, _I_ _am back. _Back home, at last.

Sara woke with a start to the loud beeping of a car horn. Her heart was thumping in her chest. Sitting bolt upright she ran her hands over her face and scanned her eyes over the bedroom, briefly wondering what she was doing there before it all flooded back. Grissom's side of the bed was empty, and when she felt her hand under the covers there was some residual warmth there. She listened for signs that he was around, but the apartment was silent.

She could tell it was light outside, but she had no idea what time it was. She frowned, her head whipping toward the window suddenly, before she scrambled out of bed. Could Francine be there? She flung the widow and shutters open and leaned out over the wrought iron railing, just in time to see Grissom emerge out of the building and climb into the back of an awaiting taxicab.

She stared out, watching as the cab pulled off the curb and disappeared down the road in a cloud of diesel fumes. Her hand came up to her mouth, her fingers dreamily brushing over it. A slow smile of bewilderment spread across her face. She could still feel his hands on her body and taste his lips on hers. It all felt so very real, her body still tingling from the aftereffect of her dream.

There was a note on the bedside table, and she swallowed. She clambered over the mattress, reaching for it, and sat cross-legged on the bed to read it. His wedding ring glinted on her finger in the morning sunlight, and she kept it on for strength, or good luck, she wasn't sure.

_Sara, there is breakfast stuff in the kitchen_, she read. _We seem to be out of eggs, though. You know anything about that? _

A slow smile of disbelief spread over her face at the lightness of his tone. What had happened to the man that only yesterday wanted nothing to do with her anymore?

_I'm sorry about missing dinner last night. Will a birthday lunch do instead? Today, one pm, at the brasserie on the Place de la Sorbonne. I _will_ be there. P.S: Hank needs to pee._


	9. Chapter 9

"Bow, stubborn knees, and, heart with string of steel,

Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe.

All may be well."

-William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_.

* * *

Still buoyed up by his note Sara arrived early at the restaurant. She had stopped by her hotel en route to charge up her phone, so there was no reason why he couldn't get a hold of her, but she prayed he kept to his word and wouldn't need to. She'd had to put the brand-new dress she had worn the previous evening in the wash and was now wearing a summer dress she had brought back from Costa Rica and kept in Paris.

She remembered the day Grissom had bought it for her like it was yesterday. They'd been on a two-day layover in San José on their way back home to the States after getting married when they had gotten lost and happened upon a vibrant street market. The dress hadn't been expensive or even of particularly good quality, but she had fallen in love with its warm tones and original style.

It was a deep rust colour with a bold green trim around the shoulders, waist and skirt, intricate embroidery at the front and a plunging neckline. Unlike her, Grissom hadn't thought twice about buying it, merely handing the seller some crumpled notes, bypassing her protestations that she'd never get the opportunity to wear it. As it turned out it fitted perfectly among the bohemian chic of the Quartier Latin, and she had worn it often. And today, she hoped it would bring about some happy memories for him too.

She'd decided to wear her hair loose, unruly curls framing her face the way he liked it, and as she pushed the restaurant door open she slipped her sunglasses to the top of her head, keeping her hair in place. The brasserie was busier and noisier than she would have liked, which, she figured with a mournful sigh, was probably the reason he'd picked it. She scanned quick eyes all around the room, but Grissom wasn't there.

"Table pour deux," she said when a harried-looking waiter came to greet her.

The waiter pulled a pained expression. "Vous avez réservé?" he asked hopefully.

"Grissom?" she tried hesitantly.

The waiter's face lit up with a broad smile and Sara let out an inward sigh of relief. "Monsieur Grissom n'est pas encore arrivé," he informed her. Then reaching for two leather-bound menus he opened his hand out, indicating that she should follow him.

Sara frowned in bewilderment. Grissom seemed to be well known, by this waiter at least, which was surprising really considering his usual preference for quieter eateries. Pondering that thought, she followed the waiter to a table set for two in an L-shaped corner off the main room. The waiter placed the menus on the table, pulled the table back so Sara could sit on the banquette and offered her an apéritif while she waited.

Sara declined with a smile, and settling herself for the wait picked up one of the menus to peruse. The words danced in front of her eyes as her thoughts invariably strayed to Grissom. She'd decided that she would not broach the topic of his illness. What if she had read the clues wrong anyway? What if he suffered from another ailment – serious, or not?

Cancer had been the obvious conclusion at the time, but it needn't be after all. No, she would give them time to reconnect first, rekindle their friendship, their love and trust. They had spent so long apart that maybe he needed time to readjust to having her around in his life and relearn how to include her into his everyday routine.

He'd gone to great lengths to keep her in the dark, and it still hurt deeply that he had chosen to do that, but she had had time to think about it and on some level she understood why he had. For too long, he only had had himself to content with, and all the decisions were his own. They had been living two separate lives. Still, it wasn't right that he'd kept it from her, and she intended to rectify it.

She looked up suddenly, turning toward the main room of the restaurant, and there he was, staring at her with an intensity that made her heart beat faster. His eyes seemed to be fixed to her upper body before they slowly moved up to her face and she knew he'd recognised the dress. He swallowed hard. Their gazes met and instinctively she gave him a wide smile. He didn't return it. He just lowered his eyes and covered the distance over to their table. He looked well and rested, remarkably well for someone who only the previous day had been too ill to stand. He wore a light blue button-down shirt and matching tie under the new jacket he'd been wearing the other day and a pair of dark baggy pants.

"You're early," he said, sounding a little breathless.

"So are you," she countered evenly.

His lips pulled into a smile which she returned brightly before half-standing in anticipation of a more intimate greeting; a hug or a chaste kiss on the cheek maybe, knowing that one on the lips was still too much to hope for. But he merely slipped off his jacket which he hung on the back of his chair before sitting down across from her.

Sara swallowed her disappointment and plastered a warm smile on her face. "New jacket?" she asked lightly, motioning to the back of his chair. "It's very nice."

He turned round, glancing at the jacket as if seeing it for the first time, and nodded. "I bought it online." His shoulder rose a little sheepishly, and he smiled. "Looked good on the guy on the picture."

"It looks good on you too," she said earnestly, too earnestly maybe because the smile faded from his lips.

"So," he said, "you got my note."

"I did," she replied, her smile returning, "Why didn't you wake me?"

His shoulder lifted. He didn't answer straightaway. He just watched her, eyes darting this way and that hesitantly, and instead of filling the silence with overtalk like she would normally do she waited him out patiently. "You looked like you could do with the sleep," he said at last, "and I was late for a tutorial I couldn't miss." His gaze lowered then flicked back up, and he sighed, grudgingly admitting, "Because I'm a coward."

Sara's smile wavered slightly, betraying her anxiety. Was this the moment when he finally opened up to her? He broke eye contact, looking embarrassed at what he'd just confessed, and picked up his napkin which he slowly, carefully unfolded onto his lap.

"I took Hank to the Jardins des Plantes," she said with fake-brightness, dipping her head to meet his eyes and find some connection. "I'd forgotten how pretty the gardens are at this time of year."

Grissom looked up, a wistful smile curling his lip. "We haven't ventured that far in a long time."

"Why not?" she almost said when his expression darkened, "You always used to." Instead, she tried to maintain her smile. "Madame Louboutin was in the apartment when we got back. She gave me the fright of my life."

Grissom pulled a pained face. "I'm sorry. I forgot to say. She…she does some housekeeping for me a couple of times a week. She walks Hank too, if I'm busy."

Her gaze lowered as it finally occurred to her where the flowers and the homemade soup had come from, and head shaking she pinched her lips to hide her amusement at the thought of the concierge's wife as the other woman.

"What?" he asked, puzzlement undisguised in his voice.

She looked up. "Sorry?"

"You were smiling."

Her smile broadened. "I…just..." she laughed at her foolishness. "Does she buy you flowers too?"

Grissom watched her uncertainly for a moment before giving a chuckle. "She has been known to," he replied, his eyes briefly sparkling with mischief, "On occasion."

She gave a nod of understanding. "Why haven't you told her you don't like bananas?"

Her question wiped the smile off his face. His eyes narrowed slightly then flickered away from her face, and he shrugged. "I just…haven't told her, that's all." He picked up his menu and flicked at the pages uninterestedly, and Sara did the same, kicking herself for her faux-pas. Almost immediately he set the menu down on the table, and Sara felt a shiver run through her at the thought that he had changed his mind and was bailing out on her.

"You can't already know what you're having," she said, forcing carefreeness as she closed her own menu and placed it over his on the table.

He considered her for a moment, as if hesitating, before giving her a tight smile. "I do," he said quietly.

Sara's stare was probing, silently urging him to open up and be done with the charade, but he didn't bite. "Do you come here often?" she asked, desperate to keep their idle talk going.

"Once or twice a week," he replied with a lift of the shoulder as though it was no big deal. "The food is good, and it's near campus. Saves me traipsing back and forth."

Staring at each other they lapsed into an awkward silence. Sara was finding it increasingly hard to maintain her smile. And then she remembered Allan Karlsson, the upbeat, never downtrodden hero of Jonas Jonasson's _The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed out of the Window and Disappeared_. "Oh, I…" she reached into her purse on the banquette next to her and pulled out the book. She stared at it uncertainly for a moment before handing it to him across the table. "I got you this. I mean, it's not Shakespeare, but I don't know, I thought you'd enjoy reading it."

Frowning Grissom reached for it, a wide smile suddenly breaking across his face when he read the cover. He looked up at her, clearly bewildered and trying but failing to stifle his amusement. "A centenarian? Are you…hum…trying to tell me something?"

"The guy likes to blow up stuff," she said, deadpan, "reminded me of someone I know. Surely, the fact that he lives to see one-hundred is a bonus."

He stared at her with narrowed eyes before refocusing his attention on the book. "You read it," he stated, flicking through the pages, and looked up.

"I had a little time on my hands." Her shoulder lifted, and she waved her hand about. "It's funny, in a way I think you'll appreciate. It certainly puts an interesting spin on the defining events of the last century, besides the fact that he and his entourage seem to be pretty accomplished at killing people and then spiriting away their bodies."

Grissom lifted an eyebrow at her playfully. "Ah. Just up my street then."

She frowned. "Up your _street_?"

He waved her query off, and she smiled on understanding that he had just been relaxed enough to let slip a phrase he most probably had picked up from Francine. "And you came all this way to give me this?"

"Yes, I did," she said, and winked.

The waiter chose this moment to approach with a pad and pencil and they turned their attention to him. "I'll have the salmon," Grissom told him in English when prompted, and then to Sara, "Pascal here likes to practice his English on me."

"My English is very bad," Pascal told Sara in a conspiratorial whisper, and then as he began scribbling on his pad, "One poached salmon with steamed vegetables. Today we have…Vichy carrots, green beans and new potatoes." He looked up from his pad. "Unless you prefer the gratin dauphinois?"

"No," Grissom said quickly, "thank you." Sara tried to hide her surprise because gratin dauphinois was one of his favourite dishes. "The steamed vegetables will be fine. No butter or parsley on the potatoes please."

Pascal nodded and made a note of the request. "And for you, madame?"

"I'll have the same," she replied a little distractedly, "but with the gratin."

"You can have a starter, if you want," Grissom suggested.

Sara smiled up at him, and shook her head. "I'm not that hungry," she said, holding his gaze.

"Would you like wine with the meal?" Pascal asked.

Grissom broke eye contact. "Not for me, no," he replied, and then refocusing on his wife, "Sara?"

"I'll just have a sparkling water, thank you," Sara said, addressing the waiter.

"Still for me," Grissom said.

The waiter removed the extra cutlery and wine glasses and left. Grissom and Sara stared at each other in silence for a moment, the chatter and cutlery noises of the other patrons their only companion, before Grissom returned his attention to the book. "Thank you," he said, lifting it to her eye line, "I look forward to reading it."

She nodded her head in acknowledgment of his words and averted her eyes to the lone white rose in the vase in the middle of the table between them, lapsing into silence. He was acting as if everything was fine, as if they were two long-time friends simply catching up over lunch. The distance between them felt so wide to Sara that she couldn't help worrying they would never be able to bridge it. How could he just sit there across from her and act like nothing was the matter?

She placed her napkin on the table and made to stand. Automatically he did too. "I'm just going to go to the bathroom," she said, quickly slipping past him to hide her distress, and he nodded.

She locked herself inside a cubicle and sat down on the closed toilet seat. She just needed a little time-out, a short minute to take stock of everything. She'd been picking up more and more clues and was suspecting a cancer surrounding his digestive system – to the stomach or the bowel maybe. He'd never been so fussy about what he ate in the past, and he definitely would have ordered the gratin. It broke her heart just to watch him silently struggle on, alone. Should she just come out with it and stop this inane pretending?

But how could she confront him without falling apart? And she couldn't do it there, in the restaurant with so many people around them. He felt safe in a middle of a crowd, and that was why he had suggested they met there and not somewhere quieter. Could the note he had left for her that morning, and its light, carefree tone, simply be a change of tactics, she wondered? Could he be trying some kind of reverse psychology on her? Pretend that everything was fine so she would go back to Vegas none the wiser and leave him to carry on with his life here?

She was walking back toward their table when she caught him pop a handful of pills into his mouth and wash them down with some water. She pretended she didn't notice, and once again he stood up as she came to the table, waiting until she had sat down to do the same. All this show and formality, the awkwardness, cautiousness and pussyfooting around each other, made her feel like they were strangers on a date, and not a loving married couple.

It didn't matter; she would be patient and give him time to find the words to tell her, even if it took the whole meal, the whole afternoon or even the whole week. She'd go along with the pretence because she knew it was important that he felt in control of his decisions. If she backed him into a corner he'd simply shut himself off. Her drink was waiting, and for something to do she picked up the bottle and filled up her glass.

"How long are you staying for?" he asked, just as she was drinking.

The question caught her completely unawares. The water got stuck in her throat and coughing she put the glass down and used her napkin to dab at her lips. _Are you back then? Back for good?_ replayed in her mind. He was testing her, and she understood that their future together would ride on the answer she gave him at that moment. Had she ever given him any indication that she would rather not be in his life than in it?

She looked up decisively and met his gaze dead on. "However long it takes," she replied, determinedly.

Grissom considered her reply, then solemnly nodded his head at her. Pascal returned with two plates of steaming food which he placed in front of them with a flurry and an enthusiastic "Bon appétit!" that was met with two slightly subdued "Mercis." Their eyes met and they shared a quiet smile.

"What time do you have to be back?" Sara asked, picking up her knife and fork to cut into her salmon.

"I don't," he said. "I'm working a half-day today."

"Good," she said brightly, "then we have the afternoon to ourselves." Her expression fell suddenly. "Unless you had other plans of course," she added, thinking that maybe he had a doctor's appointment to go to.

He stared at her at length before shaking his head in reply. "I don't have any other plans."

"Good," she said again, her bright, dancing smile returning. Without skipping a beat she began to eat, her appetite suddenly recovered. He followed suit, but she couldn't help noticing that he was picking at his food carefully, taking his time with chewing. They didn't talk, but that was fine with Sara. Instead, they exchanged small, furtive looks when they thought the other one wasn't looking, just like they used to...way back when.

"You didn't like it?" she asked, when after eating about half his food he placed his cutlery across the plate, indicating he'd finished.

"No," he reassured quickly, "It was fine. I'm just…not so hungry, that's all."

"Still feeling queasy after yesterday?"

He held her gaze. "A little."

Her smile trembled. "And the pain in your back?"

"It's manageable."

Sara pinched her lips, nodding. Her gaze lowered to her plate and she put her cutlery down. "And this between us," she wanted to ask, "is it manageable too?"

"Before," she said, looking up, "You asked me why I'd come." Her eyes flickered away and then back to his face nervously, and she shrugged. "I've come to fight for us, Gil. You may think that we're over, that there is no more us, but..." Her voice trailed off and she sighed.

Then she took a big breath and told him about how miserable she had been since the break-up, how she'd been listlessly going through the motions everyday without any purpose or sense of direction. She talked about how work didn't hold the same interest it used to. How she'd find herself checking the phone for messages she knew he wouldn't have left.

All the while Grissom listened. He never interrupted, only expressed disbelief or amusement with a lift of his brow here and a small curl of his lip there. When she recalled the fortuitous meeting with Heather and how insightful the other woman had been they shared a laugh, which intensified when Sara grudgingly recognised how good a therapist – or rather how good a friend – Heather had proved.

She didn't keep anything back, expect to tell him about the sordid affair with Basderic and that she knew he was sick. Somehow, suddenly, she understood how important it was that he knew she had come back for _him_, because she missed him and still loved him, and for no other reason. And it was true, so she told him, then paused and looked up. The emotion in his eyes made her eyes fill and her lips tremble, but still she pushed on.

"Gil," she said, holding his gaze meaningfully, "I'm not going anywhere. I think I understand why you ended our marriage the way you did. And I'm sorry it took me so long to realise it and get back to you―"

"I eat bananas," he said, stopping her mid-flow. Her face creased with puzzlement, and he shrugged. "That's why Madame Louboutin buys them for me. I still don't like them, but I eat them because they're good for me." His gaze averted uncomfortably and her heart broke for him and what she knew he was going through.

"Why don't you want me to know?" she asked softly, her eyes brimming with tears. "What are you so scared of?"

He looked up sharply. He was looking sad and pained, and it was clear that he knew she'd worked out his secret. "That you'll want to stay," he admitted in a barely audible whisper. He swallowed, the film of tears in his eyes seemingly becoming harder to clear. "I don't want you to stay, Sara."

"You can't make that decision for me," she said, her head shaking.

His expression was so desolate and heartbroken that her tears fell. She wiped at them angrily, cursing herself for being so weak when she'd vowed to be strong for him. Quietly, she reached out a shaky hand across the table toward him and waited. Slowly, almost grudgingly, his hand lifted off his lap, sliding to hers.

"I am not leaving you, Gil," she said in a quiet, choked-up voice, gripping his hand tightly, "Not this time."

Grissom stared at her for what seemed a very long time, and despite her discomfort and growing pain she made herself hold his gaze. She meant her words, even if she hadn't considered all the ramifications yet. He took in and released a long, fraught breath, and slowly nodded his head at her. "Okay," he said in a whisper, his lips pulling in a reluctant smile, "I'll tell you everything, but not here."


	10. Chapter 10

"Love and truth must be maintained in perfect balance. Truth is never to be abandoned in the name of love. But love is not to be deposed in the name of truth."

-John MacArthur.

* * *

When they left the restaurant questions raced through Sara's mind, but she made herself breathe slowly and take a moment's pause. Grissom took a left toward Rue de Vaugirard and she fell into step with him. He seemed to know where he was headed, and judging by the direction he had taken it wasn't home.

Her hand ached to take his, ached to slip in the crook of his arm, but she kept it back lest she disrupted their precarious understanding. They didn't talk, but there was plenty of time for that. His eyes were narrowed behind his sunglasses, his expression distant and preoccupied, torn and conflicted, and she knew he was racking his brain for the right words. There weren't any.

As they came to the busy intersection to cross Rue de Medicis his hand found its way in the small of her back while they waited for traffic to clear and Sara felt glad at the contact, albeit automatic it might have been. Grissom kept throwing surreptitious glances at her as they walked on and Sara couldn't help the smile that formed on her lips.

He was taking her to the Jardin du Luxembourg, garden of the French Senate, itself housed in the Palais du Luxembourg within. In the early days Sara had spent many an afternoon waiting for him to join her there after afternoon classes were over. They would take time to discover the garden and its hidden treasures: over one hundred statues of famous historical people, French queens and saints, many historical monuments and fountains and even an orangerie turned into an art museum.

The garden was famed for its calm atmosphere, and the irony wasn't lost on Sara. Trees lined the criss-crossing alleys in this side of the garden, people strolled along or relaxed on chairs scattered about the place, on wooden benches. A group of students in shorts and bare chests tossed a Frisbee around on the closely clipped lawns to their left. A few fat pigeons cooed as they pecked at the dirt ground.

She stopped fighting the tug of her hand toward his, and when it finally slipped inside his of its own accord he gave it a gentle squeeze before lifting it and tucking it in the crook of his arm. Sara felt her spirits lift a little; maybe it wasn't as bad as she feared. They were nearing the Fontaine de Medicis when Grissom slowed their pace right down and finally broke the silence.

"How did you know?" he asked in a quiet voice.

Her smile wavered. "About the cancer?" she asked after a moment, needlessly seeking confirmation from him. He nodded, and she shrugged her answer to his original question. Her vision blurred behind her sunglasses, and she looked away to hide her distress.

He covered her hand in the crook of his arm with his and patted it comfortingly. "I'm sorry I led you to believe there was another woman." He stopped walking suddenly, and she did too, turning toward him. His shoulder lifted, and he gave her a sheepish half-smile. "I didn't mean to, not at first anyway. I was truly meeting Francine and…you just appeared out of nowhere…I didn't know what else to do." He paused and lifted his right hand to her face, brushing his thumb over her cheek. "Francine is just a friend. We met―" His words drifted and he swallowed.

"At the hospital?" she asked when he faltered. His brow creased in puzzlement, and she explained, "I met her, Gil. Francine. Last night, outside Saint-Nicolas. She didn't tell me," she was quick to reassure, "she didn't need to. I was halfway there already."

He gave her a soft nod of understanding and sighed. "We share the same doctor, if not the same cancer."

Hearing him say the word out loud made everything so much more real, so much more final than it already was that her eyes filled again, and she was glad she was wearing her sunglasses. He was being so strong, so stoic about it all. He took her hand, tucked it into his arm and they resumed walking. He didn't talk again for some long minutes and when he did his words were detached and devoid of emotion, masking the turmoil she knew raged inside.

"I have stage two pancreatic cancer," he said, slipping his sunglasses off, and looked at her straight in the eye.

Sara's eyes shut, triggering more tears. Even though she had prepared herself the words still pierced right through her, the enormity of what he had just confessed hitting her full force. Her mind went blank, then filled with every titbit of information she had picked up over the years, devastating statistics that made her head pound.

She took a deep breath, and then another, but it was just too much. The sun sparkled in front of her eyes. She felt lightheaded, weak at the knees, and she swayed on her feet. His arm draped across her shoulders, gently pulling her toward him, supporting her weight, and she followed blindly while he steered her away from the main thoroughfare toward a nearby bench in the shade of an elm tree.

He didn't speak soothing words in her ear. He didn't say the words that might have made the blow easier to stomach, words of comfort and reassurance she was desperate to hear; that they had caught the cancer in time, that it was operable, and that he would live. He just sat her down, pulled her glasses off and held her to him while she cried. It was a long time before she felt composed enough to pull back from him and speak.

"How…" the word came out as a croak and she cleared her throat. "How early did you catch it?"

He shrugged. His gaze flicked away anxiously. "Not early enough."

Sara blew a slow breath, attempting to curb another sob. She cleared the tears from her eyes and nodded her head determinedly. She had to be strong. He had lived with this disease for months now, alone. She had to be strong for him. She had no choice; she'd hold it together for him. And together they would overcome it.

"It's going to be fine," she said, determinedly, "We're going to fight this thing together. And we're going to beat it."

He stared at her with disbelief and tears in his eyes. His head was shaking.

Sara gave him a smile, then draped her arms around his neck and gently pulled him to her. The sudden rush of love and wellbeing she felt at that moment transported her – them – in a different place, a happy place. She kissed his face, his eyes, his mouth, while he just sat there, tense and unresponsive. "I'm here," she said into his hair, "I'm here," and hugged him tightly until she felt a long breath leave him and his body relax.

His arms came up, wrapping around her shoulders, hands gripping tightly, crushing her. She felt his tears as they fell down his cheeks, tasted their saltiness on her lips, her tongue. They sat there on the bench, holding one another, unaware of their surroundings, of the passing people throwing glances at them, for a long time, until his arms didn't clutch quite as desperately and pulling away from him she gave him a soft smile.

"It's going to be okay," she said again, and slowly he shook his head at her.

"No, Sara, it's not," he said softly, and stared at her. The look in his eyes was as sad as the half-smile he gave her. "Can't you see?" he said, bringing his hands up to cup her face. "This thing, this cancer is eating away at me. It's got me, Sara."

"No," she said, her head shaking, twisting out of his hands.

"Sara, I'm―"

"Don't," she gasped desolately, lifting a hand between them as though warding off a threat, and screwed up her face against the fresh wave of pain. She didn't need him to tell her that pancreatic cancer was one of the most aggressive forms of the disease and that by the time it was diagnosed it was generally already too late. She didn't need to be told that it had the worst survival rate of all cancers, that only three per cent of sufferers survived their cancer for five years or more. She wiped at the tears coursing down her cheeks again; the thought of him gone, dead, was just beyond words. "Don't say it, please."

He swallowed, and nodded his head at her. "Docteur Fournier and his team are doing all they can," he said, dipping his head to make eye contact, "And so I am. I've changed my lifestyle, my diet…I'm popping pills like…" his words drifted, the 'there's no tomorrow' hanging unspoken between them. He raised his hand to her face and stroked her cheek. "Honey, we got to be realistic. The odds aren't good. I'm sorry." With a sigh he paused. His mouth opened, then shut and he shrugged. When he spoke again it was with a rough, ragged tone, and it was clear he was forcing the words out. "The cancer is located in the body and tail of the pancreas, and it's compromised the spleen."

Head shaking, she lifted her hand to his chest. Her mind reeled with all he was telling her. "Has it metastasised?"

"Not as far as they can tell from looking at the scans, but they can't know for sure."

"Can't they operate? Cut it out?"

Grissom's shoulders lifted and he let out a long sigh. "They're not sure. They've labelled the cancer borderline resectable. It's a vicious circle really. They won't be able to tell for sure until they operate and take a look, but they don't want to cut me open and cause more damage. So, they're trying something different on me." He smiled, and she could definitely hear a glimmer of hope in his voice, see one in his eyes. "It's called chemoradiation. I'm…receiving a combination of chemo and radiation therapy to try to shrink the cancer before they attempt to…operate and maybe cut it out. That's where I was going on Thursday. If the chemoradiation can shrink the cancer there's a greater chance of being able to remove it with surgery."

"Is it working?"

His shoulder lifted again. "It's hard to tell, but it doesn't look like the cancer's spreading."

Sara took a moment to process what he had told her. "So they've got it contained?" she said, hope undisguised in her tone.

"I guess so, but it's still there, Sara, making me sick."

She gave him a nod and forced a shaky smile. "I know. I know." She took in and blew out a deep breath. "And how…" her eyes filled again and she wiped at them, "And how have you been? I mean the chemo and radiotherapy that must be…" the rest of her sentence died on her lips and she swallowed.

He shrugged again, and she wished he'd stop doing that. It made him look so powerless, like everything was out of his control, which it was she mused sadly. "There are good days and bad days," he said when she faltered. "Yesterday was a bad day." A warm smile spread over his face, lighting up his eyes, "Today is a good one. Mostly I get very tired…and sore."

And all the rest, she thought. "And the university?"

"They know. They've been very good about it, very accommodating. We've rescheduled my hours to fit the treatment in. The academic year is almost over now anyway."

She frowned. "How long have you known?" she asked, unable to help the accusation in her tone.

His gaze averted quickly. "Since that day on the phone," he confessed contritely. "When I called you and told you I wouldn't be able to come home for your birthday like we'd planned."

Her eyes filled with tears and she swallowed her uneasiness. It was the day she'd given him the ultimatum and forced his hand. "Why, Gil?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Why couldn't you just tell me? Why keep me in the dark? I know I said some things but I didn't mean them. I was…angry and frustrated because I―I missed you." She wiped at her eyes. "What if it had been the other way round and I'd been the one sick? What if that conversation on the phone was the last thing I had left of you? So many weeks, months when I suspected nothing, when I thought you didn't love me anymore, when I could have been here by your side, helping you, loving you."

"Because you would have got on the first plane," he said, his voice rising, "and I didn't want you to do that."

"But why not?" she challenged desolately. "That's what husbands and wives do, Gil. That's—"

"I didn't want you coming back out of obligation," he cut in heatedly.

"Out of obligation?" she exclaimed, immediately affronted.

"Yes," he said, "Out of obligation, because you felt duty-bound to as my wife. Sara," he added, impatience showing in his tone, "three years ago you chose to return to Vegas and make a life for yourself there while I stayed here, and I respect that choice. You wanted more, needed more than what I could give you. You need more than what I _can_ give you. This illness doesn't change that."

Sara's head was shaking. This wasn't it; he was holding back on her. "_This_ is not obligation, Gil. _This_ is love. You would do it for me in a heartbeat. So why not allow me to do it for you?"

He didn't answer straightaway. He shifted on the bench uneasily and settled his gaze dead ahead of him. "I was trying to protect you," he said at last. "Spare you more suffering."

And she understood then that not telling her wasn't a selfish act as she had first thought, but a selfless one, an act borne out of love and self-sacrifice. He could cope with the disease and dealing with its ferocious treatment and even its bleak outcome, but he couldn't bear for her to see him in pain, watch him deteriorate and die.

Her lips pinched anxiously at the realisation. "What if you had died? What if you had died with me thinking you didn't love me anymore?"

He turned toward her. His blue eyes shimmered with tears. "It was a risk I was prepared to take, Sara. What I did to you – to us – broke my heart, but I believed it to be the lesser of two evils."

"And now?" she uttered in a breathless whisper.

"Now, I don't know." A wistful smile formed on his lips. His eyes trailed down her face to her neck and the dress she was wearing. His hand slid over to her lap and he took her hand resting there, brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to it. "When I saw you…when I first saw you in the apartment on Thursday…my heart swelled so much…I—I could hardly breathe. I wanted nothing more than to wrap my arms around you, hold you and keep you there. But I couldn't. I…just wasn't ready. So much had happened that you didn't know.

"And this morning, waking up next to you with my arm draped over your stomach like I once would have done, I felt like I was finally waking up from a nightmare. For a minute, it was like time was standing still and I wasn't sick any more. I watched you, studied all the lines on your face that weren't there before, traced them with my fingers." He sighed. "And then it all came flooding back, but I knew I needed to tell you before you found out for yourself. But evidently you already had."

A smile of pleasure was playing around the edges of her mouth. "Well, as you've often pointed, I am the best."

He burst into a quiet chuckle and nodded his head at her. Then out of the blue, his expression darkened and he shifted uncomfortably on the bench. His hand moved to his side, rubbing, and he got up. "My butt's gone to sleep," he said when she threw him a concerned look, and held out his hand in invitation. "Shall we?"

She knew he was lying, that he most probably was in pain, but she let it pass. Taking the proffered hand Sara pushed to her feet, and hand in hand they slowly retraced their steps past the fountain toward the palace and the exit. The sun still shone brightly overhead. Grissom pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sheen of sweat off his forehead before slipping off his jacket entirely. Words weren't spoken between them.

And as they neared the apartment she realised that they hadn't talked about whether she would move out of the hotel and back home with him. He hadn't brought it up, and she daren't. Even though he had opened up to her there was still a lot he was holding back, both as regards the cancer and its physical constraints but also as regards his feelings toward her. There, was a man who had always taken small, shuffling steps toward her, and now was no exception.

But he'd finally let her in, and that would have to be enough for now.


	11. Chapter 11

"Then must you strive to be worthy of her love. Be brave and pure, fearless to the strong and humble to the weak; and so, whether this love prospers or no, you will have fitted yourself to be honoured by a maiden's love, which is, in sooth, the highest guerdon which a knight can hope for."

-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, _The White Company_.

* * *

When Grissom let them into the darkened apartment, Hank welcomed them warmly and Sara felt a little sadness that he hadn't been there to share in their walk. Grissom made a beeline for the kitchen where he poured himself a glass of water, which he sipped at thirstily before excusing himself to go to the bathroom. After giving Hank some well-deserved love and promising to take him for a walk shortly Sara went to the lounge, finding Grissom's iPad on the coffee table.

She looked toward the doorway hesitantly then back at the iPad. "Gil," she called, "what's the password for the iPad? I want to check my emails."

There was a pause, and wondering whether he'd heard her she called again. "Corcovado," came his muffled reply.

Sara had a moment's pause. Then a wistful smile softened her face. Corcovado was the name of the national park on the Osa peninsula in the southeast of Costa Rica where he had come to find her all those years ago when he had left CSI. They had had a wonderful few weeks there, exploring the rainforest. She looked down at herself and the dress she was still wearing, and knew that like her he treasured the memories of their time spent there.

Sitting down on the couch she opened the iPad, typed in the password and checked her messages. There was one from Greg, a couple of junk ones from mail order companies she'd used once and the renewal notice for her car insurance. She tapped on Greg's email, smiling at what he wrote.

"Greg sends his regards," she called over her shoulder to Grissom.

Grissom made no response, and she composed a quick reply, saying that everything was going to plan. And aside from the cancer, everything _was_ going to plan. They were back to talking, to being friends again, the rest would follow suit she was sure of it. She just hoped they had enough time left. A wave of despair descended upon her, and she blew a deep breath, shaking herself out of it before warily glancing at the doorway.

As there were still no signs of Grissom she logged out of her email account and checked the iPad's browser history and websites he'd bookmarked. If she had more time she'd type pancreatic cancer into the search engine but for now she'd settle for knowing what he'd been reading. She was halfway through scanning the first page when she heard the toilet being flushed. She finished the paragraph and grudgingly closed the page. She hadn't read anything she didn't already know.

Hank chose this moment to give a long, mournful whimper from behind the front door and she glanced in his direction. "All right," she said in a sigh, "I'm coming," and powered off the iPad.

"Sara?" Grissom called, "Do you mind taking him round the block?"

Sara stood up from the couch just as he entered the room. He'd swapped his shirt and pants for a T-shirt and some slacks, and was padding around bare-footed. He was looking rough, and the sudden change in him worried her. He was holding an empty glass and idly she wondered whether it was time for his medication. Smiling wanly she watched as he put the glass down on the coffee table and slumped onto the couch.

"You okay?" she asked with concern. "You need a hand with anything?"

He looked up at her. "You mind taking him?" he asked again, ignoring her question.

Her smile faded. "Sure."

"I'm just going to try and finish grading these papers. I should have done them over the weekend."

She looked at the stack of essays on the coffee table. "You got a lot left to do?" she asked.

Looking distracted he gave his head a shake blearily refocusing on her, and she repeated her question. "Probably another hour's worth," he replied. "Maybe a little more, depending." He stretched over to the table, and Sara immediately reached down, passing him the stack of papers, a pen and his reading glasses.

She watched him for a moment, knowing he was in pain, unsure how to help him, then grabbed Hank's lead, a plastic doggy bag, her keys and left. It was still warm outside, but a welcomed breeze had struck up, blowing her hair out of her face, cooling her down. Hank took the lead and she blindly followed, her mind still reeling. Before she even realised Hank had taken her all the way to the river and she found a bench there where they could take a short rest as riverboats full of wide-eyed tourists sailed past. The rest of the world carried on, unaware.

When they returned home Grissom was still sitting on the couch, grading. He was looking a little better. Maybe work took his mind off the pain, she figured. He didn't seem to notice they'd come back. She stayed rooted to the spot for a minute, watching from the door as he read. His once thick hair was very much thinner and sparser now but surprisingly still there considering he was undergoing chemotherapy. She understood now why he kept it so very short. Her hand instinctively reached out to stroke it, feeling how silky soft it was. He glanced round at her and smiled.

"Chemo doesn't always mean hair loss," he said, reading her mind, and she nodded her head at him.

She knew that, of course she did. She lowered her hand to his shoulder. "You said they asked you to stay?" she asked, aiming for a casual tone.

Looking up again he removed his glasses. "They did," he answered, and studied her. "The course is proving very popular, especially with the third years. They're thinking of making it an integral part of the degree."

"And you accepted."

His brow furrowed, and he nodded slowly. "I did. All dependent on my health, of course."

Forcing a smile she nodded her head at him. He was about to slip his glasses back on and return to his work when he thought better of it and cleared a space next to him on the couch. "Sit down with me," he said and smiled.

A smile forming she walked round the coffee table he was using as desk and sat down next to him. He opened his arm, draping it across her shoulders, and pulled her to him while closing her eyes she leaned into him, welcoming the embrace. She shouldn't resent the fact that he had taken the decision to stay alone considering that they had been separated when he had, but she did.

It meant that he liked it in Paris better than in the States where he could easily find a teaching position – even out of state, if he so desired. It meant that he hadn't been ready to come home, probably wouldn't be for the foreseeable future, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. She had said she would stay for as long as it took, and she would, but what about if—when they overcame the cancer? Would he be ready to come home then? Could she make a life for herself in France?

The press of his lips on her temple drew her out of her daydream. "I'd best get on," he said, plopping his glasses back on his nose, "While I still can. I promised I'd have all this done by tomorrow."

She nodded her head at him. "I'm going to go take a shower."

He just nodded his head at her distractedly, his thoughts already back on his work. She pushed to her feet, headed to the bathroom. "Sara," he said, holding her back by the hand and waiting until she turned toward him to say, "I forgot to say before, but…you look lovely in this dress."

Her face lit up with a bright smile that wavered when a lump formed in her throat. It was so hard to look at him, to act like everything was normal, knowing that it wasn't, knowing that this cancer was slowly growing inside him, curtailing her time with him. Nodding she gave his hand a squeeze and quickly fled out of the room to hide her emotion. In the bedroom she sat down on the edge of the bed next to the clothes he'd changed out of. Madame Louboutin had washed and ironed her dress and it hung from the top of the wardrobe. The woman's kindness brought tears to her eyes and Sara quickly got undressed before shutting herself in the bathroom to cry.

When once again composed she returned to the lounge she found Hank and Grissom both dozing, one on the rug in a patch of sunlight, the other on the couch, his red pen and marking for the moment abandoned. A wistful smile formed on noticing he was still wearing his glasses. She tiptoed over to him and carefully removed them, setting them on top of his work on the table. She took a moment to watch him before leaning down to press a light kiss to his forehead.

She would make a start on dinner, and if she made enough for two, well, then so be it, she thought with a smile. In the kitchen, she turned the antiquated transistor radio on with the sound low. Her gaze narrowed with puzzlement at the French talk show in full swing and slowly she turned the dial until she heard music. As it turned out Sara found dinner already prepared in the oven, a red lentil and vegetable dish left by the kind Madame Louboutin.

Her spirits sank a little at the thought that she had nothing to do but while time away until he woke up. Or maybe not, she thought on noticing a peach spoiling in the fruit bowl. She chose an assortment of ripe fruit, gathered all the necessary utensils and set about making them dessert. She was so engrossed on her task that she never heard him come to the kitchen.

"What are you doing?"

Sara startled, then glanced over her shoulder at him. "I'm making a fruit salad."

He arched a brow in interest, and a smile forming covered the distance to her. He leaned over, reaching into the bowl for a segment of peach, which he plopped into his mouth before planting a kiss on her cheek. Her face lit up with a smile. She put the knife down and catching his eye wiped the back of her hand over the sticky spot he'd just kissed. He winked at her good-humouredly, and she laughed. The short nap had done him good.

"You're making enough to feed a small ar―" the word died on his lips as his gaze narrowed suddenly, suspiciously, and she knew she was caught out.

Her shoulder lifted, feigning casualness. "I noticed some of the fruit was spoiling and…I also noticed that Madame Louboutin had left quite a large lentil dish in the oven and since my hotel doesn't, you know, cater as such…" she let the rest of her words trail expectantly.

There was a pause. A slow smile spread across his face. "Would you like to have dinner with me maybe?" he asked.

Sara's smile widened. "Well, yes, I would," she replied brightly. "Thank you for asking."

His expression was amused and very loving. "You're very welcome." He reached into the fruit bowl beyond her for a banana, which he swiftly proceeded to peel. He looked at it before silently offering it to her.

Smiling she leaned forward to take a bite. "So," she said, aiming for a light, carefree tone, as she chewed, "What's with the bananas?"

He lifted the fruit in her eye line before biting off a chunk. "They tick all the boxes," he said, chewing, "They're high in iron, potassium, natural sugars and fibres. More importantly they contain vitamin B and C."

"Okay," she said, her brow creasing with puzzlement, "I get that they're good for you and all, but you don't like them."

His shoulder lifted. "I have to eat little and often, and they fit in my briefcase."

"So does an apple."

His gaze lingered on her face. "Vitamin B6 helps control my blood sugar levels," he said, his tone casual though expectant.

She felt a sinking feeling deep in her chest. "Diabetes?" she said in a gasp of realisation.

"Yep," he said in a nod. "Type two. Early onset." There was concern in his eyes as he stared at her. Her gaze averted to the floor and she nodded. What else was he hiding from her? His hand came up to her face, lifted her chin. "We're on top of it."

Her hand rose to his face but when she saw that her fingers were still dripping with juice she didn't make contact.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She gave him a vigorous nod. "I think so. I mean, it's a lot to process, you know?"

"I know," he said in a sigh. "I've…some pamphlets somewhere, stuff they gave me at the hospital about the cancer and all the various treatments, but it's all in French I'm afraid."

She nodded again, forced a smile. "It's okay."

An hour later, they sat down to dinner at the kitchen table. The vase of irises was gone, most probably removed by Madame Louboutin when she had been around that morning. Sara had set the table so that they were sitting across from each other and merely reheated the lentil dish the concierge's wife had prepared. She wanted tonight's meal to be nothing special, a husband and wife simply sharing a meal together like they would any normal day.

Grissom looked through the stacks of pill boxes on the worktop, extricating what he needed before washing the tablets down with some water. She wanted to ask him what they were, but decided to wait. He would tell her in time, she was sure. There were so many though, different shapes and colours that almost made them look like candy. She filled their plates, then smiled up at him, waiting for him to sit down to do the same. He tore into a slice of whole-grain bread and started eating. He was looking tired and distracted, like something was weighing on his mind.

"Are you teaching tomorrow?" she asked, breaking the silence that stretched between them.

He looked up, nodded his head, then finished chewing before answering. "Until two."

Sara loaded another forkful of lentils. "Maybe we could do something afterwards," she suggested hopefully as she brought the food to her mouth.

Again he finished his mouthful before he replied. "I'm…meeting Francine at four," he said, meeting her eyes. "She's got an appointment with Docteur Fournier and I said I'd go with her."

Sara's eyes averted to her plate and she nodded. She couldn't expect him to change his schedule, cancel his plans because she was back. She would just have to keep herself busy until his return; she'd go to the library maybe and do some research on the internet, look through medical journals for the latest treatments and print off some stuff she could pore over later.

Disappointment must have shown on her face tough because he added quietly, "She's not doing all that well."

"It's okay," she said, looking up with a quick smile, "You don't have to explain."

"She won't mind me telling you. Francine is…" he pursed his face thoughtfully, and stifled a yawn, "She is…everything I'm not."

Sara smiled, understanding what he meant. Francine had made a big impression on her too, and she was glad, if a little jealous, he'd had her support over the months. "She seemed very nice, very genuine, very…" she waved her fork about, searching for the right word, "_sprightly_ when I talked to her."

He gave a hearty laugh. "Oh, that she is, and the rest. I'll have to introduce the two of you properly. You'll like her."

They finished eating, and Sara stood up, swapping their dirty plates for two small bowls of fruit salad. Grissom smiled his thanks and began to eat. After eating about half he put his spoon down.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said, "It's very nice but…if I eat too much I'll pay the consequences later."

Sara smiled, nodded. "It's okay," she said brightly, "It'll keep for tomorrow." She stood up again, nervous energy making her movement tense and brisk, and began filling up the sink with warm water. Feeling his eyes on her she turned. "I'm just going to clear up here. Why don't you go and lay down for a while? You look beat."

He rubbed a hand over his face. "I might grab a shower actually and have an early night."

She smiled at him, then returned her attention to the sink. Was this when she brought up the sleeping arrangements? She heard his chair scrape against the tile floor as he stood up, then felt his arms wrap around her from behind, trapping her in his embrace.

"Thank you," he said, nuzzling her neck, his warm breath on her skin sending a shiver down her spine.

Closing her eyes she leaned into him. He'd learned to cope, to live with this disease. It was an integral part of his life, around which everything revolved, and now it had become a part of hers. This cancer now controlled her every action, thought and word, overshadowing whatever brief moments of joy she might be feeling.

"I'm going to tidy here and then go back to my hotel. Leave you to rest," she said, hoping he'd object, but he didn't. He simply loosened his hold on her and she turned in his arms. "I'll come back tomorrow evening. We can have dinner together again, if you want. Just let me know when you finish at the hospital with Francine."

His eyes lowered. "Where are you staying?"

"Not far," she smiled. "Hotel Saint-Germain just off the boulevard."

He gave her a small smile and a nod. "Okay."

It didn't take long for Sara to clear up the kitchen. She spent a moment straightening the bedroom, opting to leave the dress Madame Louboutin had laundered in the wardrobe for another day. She took Jonas Jonasson's book out of her purse and set it on the bedside table. Maybe he'd make a start on it before turning in for the night. Then she sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to come out of the shower.

They said awkward goodbyes, exchanging a hug, which to Sara seemed that much fiercer and more desperate than normal, as though neither really wanted to part from the other. It was hard, but she made herself pull away, determined to give him time and space. The malady had made him relinquish his pride, some of his independence too she imagined, but it had also made him give up the control he had over his life and destiny. The least she could do was to allow him back some of that control when she could.

She gave him a kiss on the cheek and then one last smile before turning away. Quietly she closed the door behind her and found herself in the cool and much darker stairwell. She shivered in her summer dress at the drop in temperature. She was reaching the first step when the door opened abruptly. She paused and turned, her heart thumping in anticipation.

"Sara!" he called, and smiled when he saw her standing there. Pulling his robe tight around him, he looked around the staircase anxiously before taking the few steps to her. "Sara, honey, I don't want to be alone tonight. Can you stay?"

A rush of love filled her heart. "Stay?"

His hand lifted to her face. "Tonight. Every night. Stay with me please."

She felt tears rise, and she nodded her head at him while he stared at her, pinched lips betraying underlying anxiety. "What is it?" she asked softly.

His shoulder rose, and he swallowed. His eyes flicked over the stairwell beyond. "Let's get back inside," he said uneasily, taking her arm and turning toward the door.

Frowning, she followed him back in. He was looking hesitant and conflicted as he closed the door behind them. "Gil?" she prompted softly when he faltered. "If it's a step too far for you, we can wait. I mean—"

"No, it's not that." He flashed an awkward half-smile before sighing again. "It's just that…I get very tired and…I'll probably crash out as soon as my head hits the pillow and…the drugs, the radiation therapy, it all comes with side effects…" Embarrassment flitted across his face, and it suddenly dawned on her what he was trying to say, why he hadn't asked her to move back in with him sooner. His expression became pained as comprehension filled her eyes. "Maybe, we could just…hold each other?" he tried hopefully.

Sara's eyes filled, her tears a mixture of joy and heartbreak, and she nodded her head at him. There was so much love between them, so much love. Her mouth opened and then shut and a bright smile grew on her lips. "Holding would be great."


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: The passage in italics quoted at the end of this chapter isn't mine – obviously. It's the opening paragraph of the opening chapter of Jonas Jonasson's book, _The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared. _Also did I mention I'm not making any money out of all the publicity I'm doing for the book? I should, but I'm not. ;-)

* * *

"A loving heart is the truest wisdom."

-Charles Dickens, _David Copperfield_.

* * *

The next day began just as its predecessor, with the feel of his fingers gently tracing down her face and over her lips and up again. Sara felt a frisson, a pleasant warmth deep in her belly she'd only felt in dreams recently. This time she wasn't dreaming. This time the sensations were physical, the real thing. Her face softened with pleasure and she opened her eyes. His gaze was gentle but earnest as he stared at her. Slowly he lifted his hand off her face, pulling back from her. He was already dressed for work. Automatically she checked the time on the bedside clock and sighed.

He'd been true to his word, falling asleep almost as soon as they'd slipped under the covers the previous night. He'd explained that he was lucky, that even though feelings of extreme tiredness would often befall him, they were generally contained to the afternoons and evenings, not impeding as much as they could on his everyday life. Regular bedtimes, as well as a good diet and mild exercise were the key. She'd smiled at him in the semidarkness and stroked his face. His eyes were closed, but he was smiling. The word _lucky_ echoed painfully in her mind long after he'd succumbed.

She had lain awake, cocooned within his safe and warm embrace, lulled by the rhythmic sound of his breathing, but the thoughts were still racing in her mind, making her restless and agitated. When she couldn't take it any longer she'd carefully extricated herself out from under him. It was nine pm, and the iPad was beckoning from next door. So she'd curled up on the couch and read, and only when she'd run out of battery and she'd failed to locate the mains charger and cable did she return to bed. He'd shifted in his sleep, loosely draping a possessive arm around her and she'd snuggled closer.

Her eyes drifted from the clock to the wedding ring lying beside it. It had dawned on her in the wee hours as she finally drifted off to sleep why he wasn't wearing it anymore. "We should have it resized," she said, and brought her gaze up to his face.

He was looking at the ring. "It kept slipping off," he explained, "I was worried I'd lose it." He refocused a solemn expression on her. There was a beat before he spoke again. "I was thinking of calling in sick."

She pushed up on her elbows, immediately alarmed. "You're in pain? Feeling sick?"

He lay down on the bed across from her, propping himself up on an elbow, and looked at her. "No," he said, and shrugged, "Just not very motivated."

Her expression relaxed, the corners of her mouth twitching up pleasurably. "Why didn't you wake me earlier?"

"Because I'm selfish," he said.

Yesterday he was a coward, and today selfish. Her smile widened. What would tomorrow bring, she wondered? What difference a good night's sleep could make! Her nostrils twitched at the smell of percolating coffee that wafted in from the kitchen and she refocused on him.

"Should be ready in about five minutes," he said, smiling. Winking at her he pushed up on his arms, then planted a kiss on her lips before collapsing back down on the mattress with a wince. Sara's smile vanished instantly. His eyes were closed, and it was clear he was in pain.

"You're okay?" she asked, lowering her hand to his shoulder compassionately.

"I'm fine," he said, a little too curtly for it to be the truth.

She stared at him a little uneasily, unsure exactly how best to help him, before pushing the covers back and getting out of bed. "Can I get you something?" she asked uncertainly, glancing at the medication on the bedside table.

"Don't fuss," he said, his eyes opening while his hand moved to rub at his side, "It'll pass."

"Gil—"

"I said it'll pass."

His face softened almost instantly with remorse but the damage was done. The pain made him snappy, she knew that, but the knowledge didn't take the sting off his words, his scolding. She tried to keep her calm and the hurt out of her features, but it was hard. She just wanted to help, make it better for him, and she couldn't.

Slowly he got himself into a sitting position. Then he reached for a vial of pills from the bedside table and prised the lid off with shaky hands. "I'm fine," he said again, gentler this time, clumsily shaking two pills out into his hand. Before she could move to refill the empty glass on the bedside table he'd swallowed the pills dry. His eyes remained closed for a moment while he waited for the drugs to take effect.

"So," he then said, as if the last two minutes or so had never happened, "What are your plans today?"

Sara stared at him with sadness before lifting her shoulder in a shrug. "I was going to go to my hotel and get my stuff," she said, stopping short of adding a 'but', and watched closely for his reaction.

He didn't reply, and she wondered whether he'd had a change of mind. Could he be regretting his decision to let her move in with him? He just pushed to his feet and moving over to the small bureau nearby picked the stack of papers he'd finished grading. "My cab should be here shortly," he said, hurriedly shoving the lot into his briefcase. "And Hank needs to pee."

Sara wanted to suggest he took the day off, but opted not to, instinctively knowing that it would be the wrong thing to say. Her gaze flicked to Hank standing by the door, watching their interaction with a hangdog expression, and then back to her husband. "I _know_ I'm going to miss our backyard," she said, trying to lighten to heavy mood, thinking how much easier it was in the mornings simply to open the back door to let Hank out.

Her comment gave him pause. His head and shoulders straightened, but when he turned around his face was a mask for his feelings. His shirt collar was turned inward, and smiling she walked around the bed to him before raising her hands to his neck. He backed his face away from her imperceptibly, almost suspiciously.

"Your collar," she said, reaching for it, "it's not straight." He lifted his face up, this time allowing her access. Her hand lingered on his neck and she gave him a soft smile. The sudden beeping of a car horn startled them and she lowered her hand.

"My cab's here," he said, needlessly, grabbing his case as he stepped past her.

Sara followed him into the hallway, wordlessly watching as he slipped his feet into his shoes and retrieved his jacket from the hook. The smell of coffee was stronger now, permeating the apartment, making her feel a little heady. Grissom went to the kitchen, returning with a small backpack he shouldered.

"Snacks and lunch," he explained, when she threw a puzzled look at it. At the front door he leaned across and pecked her on the cheek. "I should be back by 2.30. If I'm not I'll give you a call."

She smiled. "I'll be here."

She stared at the closed door for a moment, then sighed and went to pour herself a cup of coffee. She wished the tension between them would disappear. She wished he would lean on her a little, at least let her shoulder some of his load, some of his pain, not vainly hide it from her when it was so plainly there. Why not let her prepare breakfast for him, his packed lunch? Why struggle on alone when she was by his side?

She gave her back and shoulders a stretch, then took the coffee to the bathroom and quickly got ready. Hank's walk around the block was brisk, perfunctory. After feeding them both breakfast and changing his water she called the number of the taxi firm Grissom used and booked a cab. Packing her belongings and checking out of her hotel took no time at all and she was back at the apartment well within the hour.

The case was heavy, and when the driver offered to lug it up the four flights of stairs for her she readily accepted, tipping him generously for his effort. It felt like she was finally coming home, rather than just visiting. Unpacking her case felt strange. She filled drawers, the wardrobe, bathroom cabinets with all her stuff, then stowed the case under the oak bed. It felt strange but reassuring. If she was to stay long-term she'd have to ask Greg to pack and send over more clothes for her or she'd have to go shopping, which she didn't exactly relish.

She'd also need to call DB, her mother too, informing both of her new plans, of her need to prolong her stay in Paris. Would she tell them the reason why, she wondered? She didn't know. She'd make those calls later. For now, she wanted – needed to go to the Bibliothèque nationale François Mitterrand and do some research.

One short RER ride and an hour later, she was a registered member of the network of Parisian libraries. Glad she'd remembered to bring her passport as well as a proof of address, albeit with Grissom's name on it, she waited somewhat impatiently for a library card to be issued in her name.

An old-fashioned notice board to the left of the counter caught her eye. Curious, she wandered over to it, scanning quick eyes over the myriad of posters and leaflets overlapping one another. _Parler français avec Alex, _written in bold green lettering, stood out from the rest. Friendly, conversational French classes might just be what she needed. Her mouth pursing in interest she grabbed a pen from the counter and quickly scribbled the phone number on the back of the bank statement she was still holding.

Then she took her newly-issued card to a computer in a quiet corner of the second floor. It took a little time to get used to the French AZERTY keyboard, but she got there. Once online, she searched for the best pancreatic cancer treatment centre in the US – the University of Texas M.D. Andersen Cancer Center – got on their website, and read all about the cancer itself, its probable causes, diagnosis and staging, and finally the various treatments available and clinical trials. They truly seemed at the forefront of research in this type of cancer. Would Grissom have better chances of success if he'd been diagnosed and treated in the States, she wondered?

She read all about neo-adjuvant chemoradiotherapy – the combination of chemo and radiation therapy given before surgery Grissom was receiving. She read about the different types of surgery available, depending on the location of the tumours, and about all the necessary changes in lifestyle and diet. In a matter of minutes, she became an expert on what food he could eat, which to avoid. Could Dr Budwig's flaxseed oil and cottage cheese diet help too as an alternative cancer treatment? Would it hurt to try?

Then she looked for miracle stories, tales of pancreatic cancer sufferers who had defied the odds, were still defying the odds. She needed these success stories; they were all she had to cling to. She needed to believe all wasn't lost, that there was still a chance of a future for them. Because unlike Patrick Swayze and Steve Jobs Grissom _was_ going to make it.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, her lips pinching to curb a fresh wave of anxiety, and slowly began reading: a forty-one-year-old man in California who was now in remission, a forty-year-old mother-of-two in England, another one in Plantation, Florida. And there were others. So she read these strangers' stories, trying to draw parallels between the specifics of their cancers and treatment and that of her husband's. She couldn't. She realised then that she knew very little, that Grissom had told her next to nothing.

She needed to know how big the tumours were and where exactly they were located. She needed to know if blood vessels to and from the pancreas were compromised. She needed to see the CT, PET and MRI scans, the X-rays and blood tests results. Had they done a biopsy? What she needed most of all was to meet with his doctors, this Docteur Fournier, find out exactly what he was doing to save her husband and make him one of the five per cent who made it.

The hours passed while the research and printouts accumulated. Her eyes were sore, the muscles in her neck and shoulders tight, and unconsciously she kept rubbing her hand over them, but she read on. Somewhere behind her a phone rang and she glanced at the time on the computer. Her eyes widened and she jumped to her feet, gathering her purse and printouts while the computer shut down. She was late; Grissom would be home soon.

She was briskly walking up Rue Lagrange when she happened upon a pâtisserie. Slowing down, she pulled her sunglasses off and peered into the window at the delectable miniature cakes on display. Her stomach made a gurgling sound and she realised she hadn't eaten since breakfast. Another day she would have gone in and bought a russe, or a fruit tartlet on crème pâtissière or maybe even a thick mille-feuille that they would have shared. Today she slid her sunglasses back on and made herself walk away.

It was important that Grissom followed a strict diet to aid digestion and facilitate intestinal transit since his digestive system was already so compromised, and that was one way she could help. She had found some recipes online she wanted to try for him – them. Tomorrow she would go to the market and buy fresh produce, a lean chicken breast for him, and for dessert a pineapple, if she could find one, topped with natural, unsweetened yogurt.

She pushed the key into the lock, letting herself in. Water was running in the shower and she knew he was back already. She made her way to the kitchen, dropped her purse on the table and poured herself a glass of juice from the fridge. He'd been to the shops on his way home. A bulging pharmacy bag, a pink patisserie box and a bottle of red Burgundy wine sat on the counter. Tears filled her eyes at his thoughtfulness, and she wiped at them quickly.

She finished her juice and picked up an apple from the bowl. Then she kicked off her sandals and joined him in the bathroom, perching down on the edge of the bidet while he finished. After a short while he shut the water off, and a hand came out from behind the shower curtain, blindly feeling for the towel he'd placed on the edge of the sink nearby.

Standing up she wordlessly passed it to him, then threw her apple core in the trashcan. His head peeked out from behind the curtain, his expression warm but surprised as he grabbed the towel. "Thank you," he said, smiling. Water was dripping down his face, and he disappeared behind the curtain again presumably to dry himself. "Can you pass me my robe?" he then asked.

Sara looked over her shoulder, finding his robe on the hook on the back of the door, and passed it to him. She had a moment's hesitation on realising that since she'd got back she hadn't seen him naked. In the past he would have just stepped out of the shower in the nude, dripping water all over the place without a second thought. Come to think of it, the previous evening, he'd gotten changed into his pyjamas while she had been brushing her teeth and this morning he was already dressed when she woke up. Was it all deliberate, or was she reading too much into it?

When he carefully stepped over the edge of the bath onto the mat he was wearing said robe, tied tightly around his waist, and she smiled at him. "I'm sorry about this morning," he said, reaching for a hand towel and drying his face and hair. He paused and met her gaze through the mirror. His shoulder lifted. "I shouldn't have taken my frustrations out on you."

Sara reached out a hand to him and he turned toward her. "Is that what the wine and cakes are for?"

His expression became sheepish. "Maybe."

She leaned across and kissed him on the mouth. "Thank you, but you didn't have to."

"I know."

They stared at each other for a moment before Sara said, "Why don't you ask Francine to come have dinner with us tonight?"

He flicked his gaze downward, clearly hesitant. "It's a great idea but…maybe not tonight, okay?"

Sara's smile faded and she nodded her head, understanding the subtext very clearly. "Some other time," she said brightly, and he nodded at her.

Sara left Grissom to get ready and made her way to the kitchen. There, she rummaged in the cupboard for a couple of plastic containers which she proceeded to fill with leftover lentils and fruit salad before placing them in a small cool bag they used for daytrips.

"What are you doing?" Grissom asked, laughter in his voice. "I'll be back in a couple of hours at the most."

Turning, she made a playful pout. He was holding his jacket in his hand, already dressed to go. "It's not for you," she said, her shoulder lifted. "It's for Francine. You know…just a little dinner…" Letting her words trail off she gave him a small smile.

His expression grew tender. "She will appreciate it," he said warmly. "Thank you."

Nodding, Sara turned around fully and, for no other reason than she wanted to, gave him a long hug. His arms came up, draping across her back as he returned the embraced lovingly, and she closed her eyes, taking a moment to enjoy just being held. A loud, prolonged car horn sounded in the distance, and he chuckled in her ear.

"That's my cue," he said, gently pulling away from her.

Sara reached for the cool bag and handed it to him. He leaned in for a quick kiss and then was out of the door. She followed him out, wistfully watching his slow but steady progress down the stairs. As he neared the landing below, just before disappearing out of sight, he looked over his shoulder toward her and gave her a cheery wave, which Sara returned a little sadly.

When she turned back toward the apartment Hank was standing in the doorway, eyes eagerly flicking between the stairs and her expectantly. "Come on then," she said, laughing as she reached out a hand to ruffle his head on her way indoors, "Just give me time to go to the bathroom first."

Grissom still hadn't returned three hours later, and Sara was growing anxious. Several times she'd almost called his cell but had refrained at the last minute. From the open lounge window she kept an eye on the street below for his return, steadily sipping at her wine, unsure who she was most worried for – Grissom or Francine. Either way, this lateness didn't bode well.

Eventually she heard slow footsteps coming up the stairs and she opened the front door for him. He was as white as a sheet. His shoulders were hunched, making him look old and frail, and he wouldn't meet her eyes. She didn't need words to understand that Francine's visit to Docteur Fournier hadn't gone well. She closed the door behind him and joined him in the lounge.

"I'm tired, Sara," he said in a barely audible whisper, "So very tired."

This simple statement worried her more than his breaking down in tears would have done. It said so little and yet so much about his state of mind. Silently she helped him out of his jacket and down onto the couch. Crouching down in front of him, she slipped one shoe off, then the other, and when he turned helped him lay down. His eyes closed wearily, as if he was already dozing off.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

Weakly, he shook his head in reply.

"Thirsty?" she tried again.

He gave his head another shake. "I just need a moment."

Sara stared at him, helpless. She didn't ask about Francine, not then, not until much later after he managed to eat a little and they were tucked in bed for the night. Francine's days were counted; she had known that since the first moment she had seen the older woman. It was the first time since she'd arrived that he sounded and looked truly defeated, like he was losing the battle against _his_ own cancer. Whatever news had been given to Francine had hit him hard, probably bringing about thoughts of his own mortality.

Barely keeping it together herself, she had no words for him. She just had herself. He wasn't alone anymore, and she hoped her presence by his side would, if not end altogether, maybe help lessen his pain and heartache. She had an idea then, and went to the bedroom to retrieve Jonas Jonasson's book. She dropped a couple of cushions on the rug to sit on and leaning her back against the front of the couch near him began to read.

_Monday, 2__nd__ May 2005._

_You might think he could have made up his mind earlier, and been man enough to tell the others of his decision. But Allan Karlsson had never been given to pondering things too long. So, the idea had barely taken hold in the old man's head before he opened the window of his room on the ground floor of the Old People's Home in the town of Malmköping, and stepped out – into the flowerbed._

Maybe the colourful life of the hundred-year-old could help take his mind off his and Francine's hardship, if only for a short while.


	13. Chapter 13

"Love doesn't need to be perfect; it just needs to be true."

-Unknown.

* * *

The next day Sara woke up with a start. Her breathing was hard, ragged, echoing loudly in the silence all around her. Damp hair clung to her face and eyes and she brushed at it impatiently. Automatically she pushed the bed sheets away, allowing for some night air to cool her. The room was dark but she could make out the faint rays of dawn breaking. Disoriented, she clenched her eyes shut, trying to rid her mind of the lingering images of her dream, but to no avail.

Six faceless pallbearers were carrying a large, brass-handled wooden casket down the middle aisle in Saint-Nicolas. Bells were ringing, the sound resonating loudly and yet distant in her ears. The church was empty, except for a priest waiting on the step in front of the altar. His features were indistinct, but he held a book of prayers open in front of him.

Grissom was walking beside her behind the casket, his expression solemn and forlorn as he stared forward. He wore a dark suit while she wore her Costa Rican dress, which made her look odd and out-of-place. She had her hand in the crook of his elbow. It was Francine's funeral, except that when the coffin was lowered onto the stand at the altar Grissom and Francine had swapped places. Francine now stood beside her and Grissom…

Sara gasped out a muffled 'No'. Sitting bolt upright she snapped her eyes open and gave her head a brisk shake while she tried to bring her breathing under control. It was a bad dream, she told herself, a nightmare, nothing more. Turning to her right she exhaled a long breath of relief at the sight of Grissom asleep next to her. Her gaze drifted over to the bedside clock. Four-thirty, she read, falling back down onto her pillow. She kept her eyes wide open, staring at the darkened ceiling. She daren't close them lest the images returned.

Grissom stirred next to her and she turned toward him just as he was opening bleary eyes. "Sara," he said in a hoarse voice, rubbing at his eyes. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she lied, barely controlling the tremor in her voice, "Go back to sleep. It's still early."

He rolled onto his side, his right hand moving to touch her. "You're cold," he said, sitting up slightly, "you're shivering."

"I'm fine," she said again, and managed a faint smile.

Grissom held her gaze for a long moment before finally nodding his head at her. She could tell he didn't believe her but she was grateful he didn't probe further. He checked the time on the clock, then lifted the covers up in invitation. "Come closer," he said, "I'll warm you up."

Smiling, Sara shifted closer to him, turning on her side so she could mould her back to his chest. He lowered the covers over them, then wrapped a possessive arm around her with his hand resting on the soft curve of her stomach. Her eyes closed at the brush of his lips on her bare shoulder and she felt herself relax a little. His breaths were warm on her skin, and she let out a long breath as the tension finally began to dissipate, taking away with it the last of the vivid images of her dream.

His face moved away from her, burrowing into his pillow as if he was going back to sleep, but his hold on her remained strong. Sara closed her eyes. She felt safe and loved in his arms. It felt so natural to be there, so very intimate and comforting too. His touch had been so very missed, was so cherished and desired. She was home.

"I'm glad you came," he said after a while. His voice was so quiet that she wasn't sure he'd spoken at first. "You being here…it makes it…less daunting."

She looked over her shoulder at him, then shuffled around fully. He was watching her, a wistful smile on his lips. Tears prickled in her eyes at his words, at finally being accepted, but she doubted he could see them in the semidarkness. "We're going to beat this thing, Gil," she told him in a sure voice.

His smile trembled. He looked deeply unconvinced, but he nodded his head at her.

"I read up about it, yesterday, at the library," she went on eagerly, "There's…"

She paused, suddenly wondering whether then was the best time to mention about the cancer centre in Texas she'd researched. About the advanced treatments and very latest clinical trials they offered. She'd written down the names of the doctors she wanted to contact when she knew all the particulars of his cancer. She wanted to ask if she could come along to his next hospital appointment here in Paris. She had so many questions. Questions she couldn't ask him.

Grissom turned onto his back, fixing his stare to the ceiling, while she propped her head up on her elbow and studied him. The room was a little lighter now, his features were more distinct, and the slight pinching she could see in the corners of his eyes and tension in his jaw muscles betrayed his underlying anxiety. And it wasn't even five am yet. Now wasn't the time to bring all this up, that much was for sure.

"What's on your mind?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Just that we live on the fourth floor."

She frowned. "You're worried about that? Are the stairs getting to be too much?"

"What?" he exclaimed, glancing at her with puzzlement. "No," he then said and flashed a mysterious smile to a joke only he seemed privy to. "I was just thinking that it's not that easy to step out of a fourth floor window, that's all."

Her first thought was that he was talking about suicide, but she rejected it outright. Her frown deepening, she thought his words over. And then she twigged; he was referring to Allan Karlsson. "Do you want to step out of the window," she asked with interest, "and leave all this behind?"

A smile spread across his face. "Only if you shared in my adventures," he replied, flicking his eyes over to her.

Her smile was soft. "I've been sharing in your adventures for quite some time now."

His smile faded and he gave her a thoughtful nod. "I know I should have told you from the start," he said. "I realise that now. I'm sorry I didn't."

She reached out a hand to his face, and he turned his head, kissing his lips to her fingers. "What is done is done," she said. "I'm here now." She gave him a hesitant smile. "What happened to going back to the rain forest one more time?" she asked, wondering whether he'd remember the conversation they'd had many years ago.

His gaze turned back to the ceiling and he shrugged. "My perspective's changed. It's taking all my energy to fight this cancer," he said, then looked over at her. "But I would have said goodbye."

_At least have enough time to say 'goodbye' to the ones that I love, _echoed in her head_. _Her face lit up. "You won't need to," she said confidently.

Again he gave her a nod, but he looked far from convinced. Her eyes lowered hesitantly, then came back up and she lifted her hand to his chest. Gently, she slipped it between two buttons inside his pyjama top and stopped there. His eyes closed as he took in a sharp breath. She felt him tense a fraction, but he didn't draw back and she took that as assent. Her heart pounding in her ears, she skimmed her fingertips over his skin, threading them through the soft hairs on his chest, feeling the defined bones of his ribcage and his own heart beating underneath. He'd lost weight, but not enough that he felt different to the touch.

"Don't stop," he said in a whisper when she pulled her hand out.

She looked up to his face and smiled when she caught him watching her. Their gazes locked, she slipped each button of his pyjama top out of its hole, one at a time, then slid her hand under all the way, pushing the shirt tails out to the side. His chest was heaving, rising and falling quickly with every breath. His eyes closed again, and she thought she could see moisture in their corners. She rose up, bringing her lips to his chest, and trailed soft kisses to the pulse point on his throat, to his chin, his mouth. She never thought she would take it this far so soon, but the physical and emotional urge to reconnect was just too great.

He let out a long, fraught breath, then began to touch her, returning her caresses, her kisses, her love, tentatively at first and then with more practised ease. Their kisses and strokes were slow, rediscovering, never rushed. She was careful not to put too much pressure on his chest, on his stomach, lest she awakened the pain, the dull ache that lived in the pit of his belly he had told her about. She wanted him to feel pleasure, not pain. She wanted him to forget about the cancer, not be reminded of it. She wanted it to be like before.

Her hands never strayed from the top half of his body, conscious that this was already a big step for him considering only yesterday he was still wary of being seen naked, and neither did his. And that was more than enough. More than what she'd expected. At some point they drifted back to sleep, cradled in each other's arms. When she next woke he was trying to extricate himself from under her.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I was trying not to wake you. I just need the bathroom."

Sara lifted her shoulder to free his arm and glanced at the clock. Stifling a smile as she wondered how long he'd lain there needing to go before he'd dared to move, she pushed the covers back. Getting up, she adjusted her shorts and tank top, and then raked her fingers through her hair, gathering it into a pony tail before reaching for a scrunchie from the top of the chest of drawers to tie it back with.

"What are you doing?" he asked with puzzlement.

She turned toward him, her smile widening at the sight of his pyjama top still undone. He'd made no move to cover himself. "I'm not going to get caught short three days in a row," she told him with a waggle of her brow. "I'm going to make us breakfast."

"I don't have to rush off today," he said, disappearing out of the room. She heard the toilet door open and shut, and then a muffled, "My first class isn't until eleven."

Hank sauntered over from the kitchen, and waiting her turn to use the facilities Sara bent down to greet him. The toilet flushed and she and Grissom swapped places. When she had finished she found him in the kitchen. The radio was on low, tuned in to a French news programme – or so she guessed, judging by all the talking that was going on. He had swapped his pyjamas for some slacks and a T-shirt, and was busy measuring milk into a jug which he quickly transferred into a pan.

"Hot milk?" she queried, peering over his shoulder.

"Oatmeal is my breakfast of choice these days," he said, glancing at her, "with a little chopped up fruit." He turned the heat under the pan and reached into an overhead cupboard for a box of whole grain Quaker oats.

Full of fibre and nutrients and low in sugar and cholesterol, she thought, her brow rising in interest. The perfect start to the day for someone with his health issues, or _Something to smile about_ as the Quaker Oats slogan claimed. She hadn't eaten oatmeal since her cold and penniless days in Massachusetts. "Count me in," she told him with the requisite smile.

"All right," he said, registering surprise, "Oatmeal for two it is."

Sara poured them both a glass of juice and busied herself with making coffee – for one. Then she washed an apple and a peach and set the table. Grissom cooked the oatmeal the old fashion way on the stove, stirring all the while lest it stuck, before going through the now familiar ritual with pill taking. Joining her at the table with two steaming bowls he dropped one pill near his glass. They sat down to eat, and Sara took a sip of her juice while the oatmeal cooled down. It felt just like old times.

"It's an enzyme supplement," he said, and she looked up abruptly. He was fingering the pill. "It helps with absorbing nutrients and keeping my weight up."

Nodding she gave him a smile. He put the pill down, then picked up the apple and a knife and proceeded to quarter it and then core it before cutting each piece in half again and slicing them thinly and very deftly. Half went in his bowl, the other half in hers. She watched mesmerised as he did the same to the peach and then began eating.

She picked up her spoon, following suit. "Why don't you take the day off today?" she suggested softly, thinking back to his ordeal the previous evening.

"I can't," he said in a sigh. "Not so close to the finals." Pausing, he lifted his shoulder in a shrug. "Besides, I need to go in. I need to keep to the routine, stay busy. Keep my mind busy. It helps…me. I need to pretend that this cancer doesn't dominate everything I do, doesn't control the whole of my life."

He put his spoon down and reached out his hand to her. She took it and gave it a squeeze. "I understand," she said brightly.

His eyes lowered, then came back up to her face. Withdrawing his hand, he picked up his spoon again and they resumed eating. "I normally walk to uni on a Wednesday," he said, scooping up some porridge, "and since I'm not in a rush," he let his words trail with a meaningful look. "Would you like to walk in with me? Maybe Hank could come too."

Her spoon stopped half-way to her mouth. Her smile was wide and excited. She used to do that, a lot, in the beginning before she'd gone back to Vegas. The three of them would take a leisurely walk in, Hank eagerly leading the way. "I'd love to," she replied. They finished eating their breakfast in silence and then she said, "I was thinking maybe afterwards I could call on Francine. See if she's doing okay after last night, if she needs anything, you know, grocery shopping or whatever."

"I don't know," he said, sounding and looking hesitant.

"Maybe I could call her then, on the phone I mean. She wouldn't have to pick up if she didn't want to."

"Would you?" he asked with surprise. "If I gave you her number? I mean I was going to call her myself later anyway, but…are you sure?"

She gave him a wide smile and a definite nod. It was her turn to extend her hand across the table, and his turn to give it a squeeze. "She shouldn't be on her own," she said, thinking back to what he had told her the previous evening, that the treatment wasn't working anymore and that all they could do for her now was make her comfortable. She had lost a six year battle against a breast cancer that had metastasised beyond control. His eyes flicked down and he nodded his head at her. "Where is her family?"

"I don't know," he said, "I never asked. I know she never married and doesn't have children."

Sara pondered his words for a moment. "How did you two meet?" she asked. "I mean, it's not like you would just strike up a conversation with her."

He let out a chuckle. "Well, I did. I was her knight in shining armour, to use her words." His smile faded. He picked up his glass of juice and finished it. "We were in Docteur Fournier's waiting room," he said, his expression wistful, "I was early for my appointment. She'd just had hers. She came out of his office upset. The secretary insisted she would call her a taxi, but Francine wouldn't have any of it, said she was fine to drive. She wasn't of course, so I offered my services. I've always wanted to drive in Parisian traffic and there was my chance."

"She speaks very good English," Sara remarked.

"For a French person?" he enquired with a smirk, and they shared a complicit smile at the old joke. "Her mother was English, I think, her father French."

"She calls you _Gilbert_." Sara tried her best with the French pronunciation.

His lips twitched with amusement. "Don't you dare try it," he teased in a whisper.

A brow arched**. **"Why?" she challenged, failing to suppress her growing smile. "What will you do if I do?"

He didn't answer. He just regarded her with narrowed eyes, then he winked at her and promptly pushing to his feet gathered up their empty bowls and cutlery which he placed in the sink. He put the plug in the hole and turned the water on before squirting a large dollop of washing up liquid. This scene was so familiar, so reminiscent of times past, that it played in her mind almost like a déjà-vu, and she had trouble differentiating past from present. She felt happy and realised that for the first she almost forgot about the cancer.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Remind me to call Heather and thank her, will you?" he said, deadpan, before a smile escaped and he burst out laughing.

Sara pulled a face at his teasing then got up, joining him at the sink with the rest of the dishes. "I was going to offer to do the washing up," she said, sliding the dishes into the water, "But since you're not playing nice…" She pressed her lips to his cheek, then moved to the door, "I'm going to take a bath instead."

Lips pursing to the side, he flicked his gaze down to Hank curled up in his basket. "Well, I guess that means it's my turn to take you out, huh?"

Sara walked out of the kitchen with a spring in her step, knowing that today would be a good day for both of them. She just hoped it was the first in a long line of many. She'd forgotten how much pleasure could be had in sharing the most simple tasks. Simple things that she had taken for granted for so long and couldn't afford to anymore, like waking up next to him and waiting her turn for the bathroom, sitting at the kitchen table to share breakfast or even bicker about whose turn it was to walk Hank. All these things filled her with an incredible sense of joy and wellbeing.

The radio was turned up, nasally French voices filling the quiet of the apartment. She tiptoed back to the doorway and watched unseen as he pulled rubber gloves on his hands before stirring his hand into the warm water, making bubbles. He was happy. She found that increasingly her moods depended on his. If he was happy and pain free, so was she. She couldn't believe that only a week ago, even as she packed her bags, she had still believed that their marriage was over and that he didn't love her anymore.

She couldn't have been more wrong. And he was right, Heather was to thank for that.


	14. Chapter 14

"Do not waste yourself in rejection; do not bark against the bad, but chant the beauty of the good."

-Ralph Waldo Emerson.

* * *

Sara was humming along to _You Give Love a Bad Name_ playing on the radio while unpacking groceries when she heard a short, faint buzzing sound. Hank's head lifted off his front paws, turning toward the kitchen doorway. Frowning, she reached over to turn Bon Jovi off and listened. Again, the same buzzing sound, louder and more prolonged this time, insistent almost, and coming from the front door.

Understanding dawning, Sara jogged to the front door and picked up the intercom. "Oui?" she replied uncertainly, wondering who it could be.

"Sara?" came a crackly French voice, "C'est moi, Francine."

"Francine?" Sara exclaimed, immediately alarmed. "Is everything okay?" There was no reply so Sara pressed her thumb to the button on the intercom, opening the main door downstairs. "Come on up," she almost shouted, so as to be heard over the noise of traffic in the background. "The door sticks, you got to push hard."

"Wait," Francine called breathlessly, in English this time, "I'm not coming up. I'm double-parked."

Sara paused. Just to prove the point, a horn honked, simultaneously echoing down the line and from outside through the open kitchen window. "Gil's not here," she said, her brow creasing in puzzlement.

"It's not him I came to see." There was a pause, one that stretched, and just as Sara was contemplating going downstairs herself Francine came back on the line. "I'm looking pasty," she said, "I need some vitamin D. Grab a hat, some suntan lotion and that beast of yours. I'm going to drive round the block and when I swing by again you'll be waiting." A car horn sounded impatiently in the background, followed by a mutter of French expletives, and the line went dead.

It was one-thirty. Grissom wasn't due back until four. Sara had a little time on her hands, and why not spend it with Francine? Maybe she could text Grissom, and if they went somewhere nearby he could join them there. The Jardins du Luxembourg seemed the perfect place. Not far for him to walk from the Sorbonne, and they could always catch a ride back with Francine if he felt tired afterwards. Slightly bewildered, she hung up the phone and turned toward Hank who ever hopeful had made the trip to the door.

"Sounds like we're going out again," she said, laughing. Hank shook himself, and by the wild wagging of his tail she could tell he approved.

Ten minutes later they were waiting outside the building. Sara had packed a knapsack with a bottle of water from the fridge, a plastic bowl for Hank, and a couple of Granola bars for Grissom. She'd added her iPod, a book, some out-of-date suntan lotion she'd unearthed in the medicine cabinet and, as instructed, a hat – his hat – which she now donned. She scanned her eyes up the one-way street for signs of Francine's red Clio. She didn't have long to wait, the loud rumble of an engine in too low a gear announcing the older woman's timely arrival. Sara looked at Hank and then at the small car, hesitating.

"He'll be fine in the back," Francine said through her open window as she pulled to a stop in front of Sara. "The boot's too small."

Sara's brow arched in puzzlement at the terminology, but she didn't ask. She wrenched the back door open and when Hank jumped in, filling the entire back seat, she realised he had been there before. It was rather crammed in the front as she took her place next to Francine and wedged her bag between her legs. Taking off the hat, she looked over her shoulder to check on Hank and smiled. Panting, Hank sat forward and dead centre of the seat. His head was touching the roof of the car and he almost looked like he was smiling. He reminded her of an eager child, ready for an adventure.

"Where to?" she asked as Francine ground the car into first gear.

"Pas très loin, ma belle," Francine replied.

Not very far… Had she just called her beautiful? Sara turned toward Francine with a frown, and the older woman grinned at her. Francine was wearing a flowery blouse, white Capri pants and her customary red scarf under a wide-brimmed sunhat. She reminded Sara of an ageing nineteen sixties movie star – Brigitte Bardot without the tan and oversized sunglasses, or the cigarette.

Sara had just enough time to buckle up before the car lurched forward and they were off. Hank was panting loudly in her ear, and Sara lowered her window. Hank shifted over to her side, thrusting his head in the opening and closing his eyes as the wind flattened his ears back. Francine's driving was fast, almost reckless at times as she disregarded speed limits and rights of way, and for want of something better Sara found herself clutching tensely at the hat in her lap.

"I thought we could go to the Jardins du Luxembourg," she said, as joining traffic on the Boulevard Saint-Germain Francine finally slowed down. "That way Gil could come and meet us."

Francine gave Sara a long sideways look. One pencilled eyebrow was raised. "Ah, dear _Gilbert_," she said in a mixture of English and French, and in an enigmatic tone that Sara didn't fully understand, and laughed.

Francine's enthusiasm was lifting and contagious. She had a quick, easy laugh, as easy as her manner. It didn't seem forced, or put on solely for Sara's benefit. Sara felt comfortable in her presence; it felt like they had known each other for years, not days, which was surprising really considering her usual trust issues.

She had called and left an awkward message around noon, but in all frankness she hadn't expected to hear back. Not so soon, anyway. Maybe the older woman was in denial of her terminal condition, she pondered, or maybe she had just accepted it and had decided not to let it define who she was and how she lived what was left of her life. Sara favoured the latter, and admired Francine for it.

"Have you eaten?" Francine asked, switching back to French.

"Oui," Sara replied, and then forthrightly, "You?"

Francine's returning grin was wide and amused. "I guess I should thank you for that," she said.

"It's the least I could do," Sara replied. She paused, holding on tightly to Hank's collar to steady him while Francine negotiated another corner at breakneck speed. "Are yours and Gil's conversations like this too?" she asked afterwards.

Francine glanced over at her. "Like what?"

"This continuous back and forth from French to English."

A knowing smile formed, tugging at the corners of Francine's mouth. "No," she said. "He speaks French, and I flit between the two." She laughed. "I didn't tell him for a month I spoke English. His French is most delightful and _so_ very proper, you know?"

Sara's smile wavered slightly as she thought that, no, she didn't know. Lapsing into silence, she refocused her attention on the road. She'd only ever heard him speak in shops and restaurants, or brief conversations on the phone, phrasebook French that even she was able to understand. Maybe if she had made more effort to learn French, go out and meet people, she might have felt better adjusted.

"He's so much happier now you're here," Francine said, drawing her back to the present. They were stopped at a red light. She turned toward Francine, smiling when she caught the older woman watching her. "It's good that you're here," she repeated solemnly. "He's going to need you." The lights changed to green, and refocusing shiny eyes on the road Francine pulled away. "I've grown very fond of him."

Sara's smile trembled and she covered Francine's hand on the gear stick, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"I'm sorry," Francine said, turning a wide, but shaky smile to Sara. "What a party pooper I turn out to be. I'm not normally this…gloomy, I promise." Pulling up at the curb in front of the park's entrance she killed the engine.

"Francine," Sara said, looking around uncertainly, "you can't park here." She stared at a _stationnement interdit_ sign. No parking, she was sure that was what it meant. "You will get a ticket, or worse you'll get towed away."

Francine pulled a face. "Who's the party pooper now?" she said, but a smile played on her lips. She gave a shrug, then started the engine again before driving away without checking for oncoming traffic. A car horn sounded from behind, loud and angry, and Francine gave the man a piece of her mind. Taking the first turn on the right she then brought the car to a stop at the end of a long line of parked cars. "C'est mieux ici?" she then asked Sara, almost like a flippant child. Better here?

Francine was such a breath of fresh air that Sara felt a wave of sadness at the fact that she wouldn't get to know her better. "Beaucoup mieux," she replied, plastering a bright smile on her face and earning herself a most approving look from Francine. Much better.

At the park, they found a quiet corner just off the beaten track under the shade of some oak trees. Francine went to fetch a couple of lounge chairs that were a permanent feature of the gardens while Sara surveyed her surroundings. She could hear birds twittering away somewhere above her despite the background noise of incessant traffic. Thin, hazy clouds drifted overhead, carried away by the breeze. A smile broke on her face as two grey squirrels chased one another across the lawn before clambering up a nearby tree onto a low branch and disappearing. She couldn't wait for Grissom to get there.

Once seated, she got her phone out and called him, knowing he wouldn't pick up. She left a detailed message, hoping he'd remember to check his phone before heading home, and hoping too that he would want to come and not find a reason not to. When she put her phone away, Francine was watching her.

"Alors?" she asked. So?

Sara shrugged her reply. "We'll see," she said in English. "I told him to look for George Sand, that he couldn't miss us."

"A woman to my liking," Francine remarked in English, and Sara wasn't sure she meant George Sand, or herself.

"Gil said you never married," Sara said after a while in silence.

"No," Francine replied softly, "I never found the one." She laughed. "Or he never found me. Oh, don't get me wrong. I've never been alone or lonely, but now I wish there was someone…" she trailed off and Sara gave her nod of understanding.

"I'm glad I came too," Sara said in a sigh, "but I wish he'd told me right from the start so I could have met his doctors, been there for the diagnosis and while he was having treatment. I feel so…powerless, so uninformed. He's told me so little. I mean, I have all these questions I want to ask him, but…I'm so worried of tipping the balance that I don't. All I know I've read on the Internet, and it's not enough. It's like he's deliberately keeping some things back from me. Like he doesn't trust me. Not fully, not like he used to."

"He loves you, Sara. I just think that's his way of protecting you. Cancer isn't a pretty disease. It's dirty and messy, debilitating. It changes who you are. It makes you angry and bitter. It strips you of everything. Pride, strength, hope, independence…everything goes."

"I get that," Sara defended, "I do. I just wish he would…include me more."

"Just be there for him, that's all you can do."

Sara pondered Francine's words for a moment before nodding her head. Her eyes lowered to her lap, then came back up to Francine. "Can I ask you something?"

Francine's face lit up. "Bien sûr." Of course.

Sara let out a breath, searching for the right words to ask her question. "Did you ever…" Shaking her head she lapsed into silence.

"Sara?" Francine said softly, and Sara refocused. "Ask me your question."

Sara's smile was sad, but she nodded her head. "Did you ever question the quality of the treatment you got here? I mean, do you ever wonder whether―"

"Whether they would have cured me if I'd been treated somewhere else?" Francine finished when Sara faltered. To Sara's nod, she replied, "No, I don't. I never did. This is my home. My country. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else." There was a pause while Francine stared, watchful and perceptive. "It's different for you, though, isn't it? You'd rather be back home in the States, somewhere familiar. With him, of course," she added, when Sara opened her mouth to object.

Sara took in, then exhaled a long breath and after a long while nodded her head in agreement. "Is that so bad?"

"No. Not at all. France isn't your country, French isn't your tongue. You feel like a stranger here, a tourist, and you are." There was no malice in Francine's words or in her tone, just matter-of-factness. "You don't have any of your friends, your work, any kind of support network aside from Gil. That's why you couldn't stay last time."

"It's not only that," Sara defended, upset that her actions in the past appeared self-centred. "I can't help thinking…" the words caught, and quickly wiping at her tear in the corner of her eye she cleared her throat, "that he would get better care at home, that he would have a better chance of making it."

Francine's expression was fond and compassionate, and understanding too, as she gave a thoughtful nod. "You need to tell him, Sara," she said. "You need to tell him how you feel. It's not good to keep all this inside. It would only bring resentment."

Sara nodded while Francine lapsed into silence and gazed off at something in the distance, as though getting caught in some distant memory. Sara reached into the bag for the sunscreen which she rubbed on her skin while Francine's words played over in her head. When she next looked up, her companion had nodded off. A wistful smile on her face, she got Hank's ball out and they played fetch. It gave Sara something to do and time to think. When both grew hot and tired, they returned to their shady corner. Sara filled the plastic bowl with water for Hank before taking a long gulp herself. Francine was still sleeping. It didn't matter. She found that even her silent company was better than being alone.

She was half-dozing while listening to her iPod when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning with a start, she pulled the buds out of her ears and gave her husband a wide smile. Returning the smile, he dropped his daysack to the ground and they kissed. He slipped his jacket off, showing off sweat patches under his armpits, and tossed it over his bag.

"You made it then?" she asked brightly.

"Looks like it." He lifted the hat off her head and put it on his while she made a playful pout.

"How was your day?"

His eyes drifted over to Francine. "Not as good as yours by the looks of it."

"I―I wasn't given the choice," Sara said. "She is a force to be reckoned with, that's for sure." He brought her gaze back to her and straightened up with a wince. "You sit down," she said, picking up her bag as she jumped to her feet. Hank stood up and made a half-hearted move to greet his master. Rummaging in the bag, Sara pulled out the bottle of water and the granola bars she'd brought for him. "You hungry? Thirsty?"

His look told her not to fuss, and she tried to tone down her concern. "Thank you," he said, accepting the food and water gratefully. Then carefully, he eased himself down onto the chair and finished the water before opening one of the bars and taking a bite. Smiling his thanks, he reached out his hand and took hers, entwining their fingers. "So, George Sand, huh?" he said, chewing.

Laughing, Sara put the bag down, then sat down on the grass by his legs and when his hand found the side of her face, stroking lightly, she closed her eyes. When he had finished eating, in a quiet voice and without prompting, he told her about his day, how he cheated and caught a lift off one of his colleagues to the park so that he wouldn't be too tired for the walk home. Sara was telling him about her plans for dinner when Francine woke up.

"_Gilbert_!" Francine suddenly exclaimed, and they both turned toward her, "enfin tu es là." There you are.

"Francine," Grissom greeted, and Sara could hear the smirk in his voice, "Comment ça va?" How are you?

"Comme sur des roulettes!" she replied, and head shaking Grissom burst out in a quiet chuckle.

"Comme sur des roulettes?" Sara repeated uncertainly, eyes darting between the two.

"It means…like clockwork," Grissom provided.

"I prefer…like a charm," Francine countered.

"You would," he remarked dryly. "But seriously."

Francine's face closed off. More tellingly, she didn't answer the question. "Sara and I are getting along like a house on fire," she said instead. Sara took a moment to study her husband while he and Francine exchanged a few pleasantries in English, which Sara knew was for her benefit. Looking relaxed he betrayed none of the turmoil he had felt the previous night about his friend's bleak prognosis. The good-humoured banter went on for a while longer, until Francine said she had something important to tell them.

"I'm leaving for Le Touquet tomorrow," she announced brightly. "My father lives there. I'm going to stay with him for a few days, and make amends. Maybe catch a horse race or two. Play roulette at the casino." Her voice turned quiet, thoughtful. "While I still can."

She was going to say goodbye, Sara thought, her gaze immediately flicking to her husband. His face was drawn, turned away. Then he gave Francine a nod. "I hope you're not thinking of driving there," he said, and there was no trace of levity in his voice.

Francine paused. The crayon line rose, but she kept her quip to herself, shrugging instead. "No. I'm taking the train. It's not far." She looked over at Sara and smiled. "_Gilbert_, here, doesn't appreciate my driving."

Grissom scoffed, but it was in good humour.

"Where is le Touquet?" Sara asked.

"It's a holiday resort in the north of France, on the coast," Francine said. "They call it the playground of rich Parisians. It's always been popular with the wealthy English too. It's only a stone's throw away, you see, across the channel. That's where my parents met and I grew up. You two should go some time."

Smiling, Sara looked over at Grissom who didn't answer. He just flicked his gaze away, staring in the middle distance, lost in thought. After a moment his eyes drifted shut behind his sunglasses, and Sara turned back to Francine who also had her eyes closed. Hank lay sprawled nearby, equally snoozing. Well, as the saying goes, if you can't beat them, join them, and that was exactly what Sara did.

"I fancy an ice cream," Francine exclaimed brightly some time later, out of the blue, "How about you? Sara, Gil?"

Sara opened one eye, squinting up at Francine who was out of her seat and staring in the distance, then looked over at Grissom. His eyes were still closed, his mouth open a crack as he dozed on.

"My treat," Francine said excitedly.

Sara made a mental check of the information she'd read concerning the dos and don'ts of Grissom's diet and made a decision. "All right," she said, shielding her eyes with her hand as she refocused on Francine, "But it's my treat. You keep an eye on my husband, and on Hank." She sat up, slid her feet into her sandals and reaching for her purse pushed to her feet.

After taking Francine's order of un eskimo à la vanille – a bar of vanilla ice cream on a stick covered in dark chocolate she soon found out – Sara set off across the lawn toward the ice cream van parked up near the East entrance to the park. Joining the short queue she scanned her eyes on the menu before ordering three eskimos and a half-litre bottle of Volvic water. As she walked back she noticed Grissom was awake and talking to Francine. The conversation was in French and somewhat heated, on Francine's side anyway. Or at least, that was what it sounded like. They fell silent as she approached and Sara's gaze narrowed in puzzlement.

The mood had changed, that much was certain. The tension between the two was palpable. Her smile thinning, she flicked her eyes between Grissom who was looking down at his lap and Francine who gave her one of her Gallic shrugs and a sheepish look that said, "I'm sorry. I put my big foot in it." Sara hesitated briefly, then touched Grissom on the arm and he looked up at her. His features were tense, closed off, introspective. He was looking tired too suddenly, and she knew it wouldn't be long before they headed home. She offered him a warm smile as she held out his ice cream, but it was met with a blank look.

"I got three of the same," she said, needing to fill the heavy silence. "I hope it's okay."

Wordlessly, Grissom took the ice cream from her and proceeded to rip the paper wrapper open while she gave Francine hers.

"I bought some water too," she told him, gently dropping the bottle in his lap.

His expression softened with a half-smile. He put the ice cream down and picked up the bottle before lifting the cap and thirstily drinking from it. "Thank you," he said, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, "I needed that."

She tried to hold his gaze in a silent question, wondering whether she was the reason for the shift in the mood. He dropped the bottle to the ground, then reached for her hand, giving it a squeeze, before pulling his ice cream out of the wrapper and taking a big bite off the top. The layer of chocolate broke up in tiny pieces which he pushed into his mouth as he chewed. He was hungry, and she wondered whether the change was due to low sugar levels and nothing to do with her.

The ride home was silent. Grissom sat at the front while Sara shared the back seat with a tired-out Hank. She felt drained herself, a combination of the sun, fresh air and worry. Francine drove carefully, sedately even, her eyes continuously flicking between the road and the rearview mirror in silent apology.

At home, Grissom got showered and changed while she prepared dinner. He put a little music on. They talked while they ate, even going as far as joking about the fact that she'd grilled chicken for him. He didn't seem upset with her, more preoccupied, and she wondered whether Francine had announced more bad news that she hadn't wanted to share with her.

She finished tidying the kitchen, then joined him in the living room with a glass of wine. He was sitting on the couch, watching the eight o'clock news on the television. Looking up when she approached he gave her a smile and patted the space next to him. She put her glass down on the coffee table, then tucking her legs under her dropped onto the couch and gently leaned her head against his shoulder while he draped his arm around her.

She knew he was due to have more treatment soon, but he hadn't discussed it with her at all. Could that be the source of his worry, she wondered? Things were going better for them, so why hadn't he asked her to go with him? Why wasn't he opening up more?

"Gil," she said, keeping her eyes on the screen, "What did Francine say to upset you this afternoon?"

There was no reply, and when she turned toward him she found that he'd drifted off. With a sigh she snuggled closer to him and returned her attention to the television. Some foreign report about an insurgence in the Middle East played on the screen. The guns, the violence made her think of Vegas, of her work, of the fact that in a week's time she was due back.

It was time she made that call to DB and told him about her change of plans.


	15. Chapter 15

"There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved."

-George Sand, French novelist.

* * *

The sound of a garbage truck operating in the street below woke Sara up the next morning. Feeling headachy, almost groggy, she scrunched her eyes shut before opening them slowly. Idly she wondered whether she was coming down with something, but then remembered the night before. Grissom had gone to bed soon after the news had ended, and she'd stayed up, curling up on the couch with Hank and the bottle of Burgundy Grissom had bought the previous day.

The wine had taken the edge off her worries, off her pain, and now she was paying the price. Slowly she turned her head toward Grissom's side of the bed, finding it empty. The door was closed, the apartment dead quiet. The time on the bedside clock read six thirty, too early for him to be up, even on a workday, unless he was sick. Panic set in, and she sprang out of bed, wrenched the door open and went looking.

The kitchen door was open a crack and she made out the faint sound of voices talking quietly. The radio, she figured, pushing the door open a little more. She stopped at the threshold, a wistful smile forming on her lips as she surveyed the scene while her heartbeat slowed back down to a more normal rhythm. Hank lifted his head up off his basket, and tail wagging looked at her.

Grissom had his back to her. Oblivious, he chuckled at something that was said on the radio. Then he shook his head and muttered something in reply before turning his attention back to what he was doing. Hank got up from his basket and she went in fully. Bringing her finger to her mouth in a shushing motion, she closed the distance to her husband, wrapped her arms around him from behind and pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade.

"Hey," he said softly and turned toward her with a smile.

"Come back to bed," she said, squeezing him gently to her, "It's still early. Too early to be up."

"I want to finish this first," he said, turning back, "Let it rest for later."

Sara pulled back from him and looked over his shoulder. He'd made pancake batter. Her smile widened at his forethought, at the fact that he'd had a good night sleep. She wished now that he didn't have to go in to work so they could have the whole day to themselves to do as they pleased. She reached for the glass drying on the rack, filled it with water and drank it whole while he added a little more milk, gave the mixture one last stir and laid a clean dishcloth over the bowl. When he turned toward her he had a twinkle in his eyes and a satisfied smile curling the edges of his mouth.

"I…" his shoulder lifted, "I've cancelled my taxi," he said, "I've decided not to go in today."

He wasn't unwell. On the contrary he looked reposed, relaxed, and happy. She stared at him in bewilderment, silently asking for an explanation. His shoulder lifted again, and in that simple gesture she understood all that wasn't said.

"Let's get back to bed," he said, giving her a hesitant smile. Then he turned the radio off and taking her hand led her back the bedroom. He closed the door and they snuggled back under the covers. Sara moulded her body to his side with her head on his shoulder while he held her, his fingers lightly stroking along the curve of her spine. She felt a shiver run through her body. At that moment in time, there was nowhere else she'd rather be.

"I thought maybe we could have a lazy morning here," he said after a while, "and then later we could go to the Centre Pompidou." His words were quiet, a mere whisper in her hair. "There's a Dalí exhibition there I've been wanting to see, a type of homage to his life's work, and then maybe we could…go out to lunch somewhere."

Sara lifted her head off his chest and looked up at him. He was watching her, the tenderness in his gaze bringing tears to her eyes. It was as though he'd suddenly realised that they didn't have time to waste, that he needed to make the rest of their time together count, and she understood that this turnabout was most probably Francine's work. Pushing her sadness away, she rose up on her elbow and kissed him softly on the lips. "Let's do it," she said.

Smiling he nodded his head at her, then leaned toward her for another kiss, one that lingered sensually and then deepened tantalisingly, catching Sara by surprise. He shifted from under her, gently rolling them so Sara was on her back, without breaking the kiss. His hand crept under her top, finding the swell of her left breast. His mouth moved to neck, to the pulse point, and Sara felt herself arching up to him. It had been so long since they'd kissed like that, since he'd touched her in such an ardent manner. Breathless he pulled back and swallowed and watched her. There was heat in his gaze, heat and promise but fear too.

Her hand moved to his face and she smiled. "We don't have to do this, if you don't want to," she said.

"Oh, I want to. I just don't know―I don't think that―"

She slid her hand over his mouth, cutting short his caution. "It doesn't matter," she said, "Let's just enjoy the moment, see where it takes us." She drew her hand back, sliding it down his chest and under his top, and reached up to kiss him. It didn't matter if they didn't end up going all the way, what mattered was that they were becoming husband and wife again.

A couple of hours later they were seated at the kitchen table finishing their pancakes when there was a knock on the door immediately followed by a key scraping into the front door lock as Madame Louboutin let herself in. "Madame Grissom?" she called as she closed the door after her.

Grissom pulled a pained face. "I forgot she was coming," he whispered, and Sara stifled a smile. They sat in their robes, and Sara was sure her hair had seen better days.

They turned toward the doorway just as Madame Louboutin stepped into the kitchen. She stopped short, her eyes widening with surprise when she saw them sitting there. "Oh, pardon," she said, looking mortified, her eyes darting from one to the other, "Je suis désolée. Je croyais…ça ne fait rien. Je reviendrai plus tard." Hesitantly, she turned away.

"Non, non," Sara said, standing up, and looked over at Grissom for help.

"Madame Louboutin," he said, "ne vous inquiétez pas." Don't worry. Grissom spoke in French and Sara didn't pick up everything, but enough to know he asked her to come back in an hour or so, that they would be out of her way by then.

Her eyes flicking between the two Madame Louboutin gave them a fond smile and then she nodded her head, indicating it was no trouble at all. "Et Hank?" she then asked, glancing down at Hank who had got up and was nuzzling her hand in greeting.

Whatever she next told Grissom curtailed his good mood. It was as if she'd reminded him of something he'd managed to forget, albeit temporarily. He shot an anxious glance at Sara, before replying in the affirmative. Madame Louboutin gave Hank one last stroke before turning away, leaving them to finish their breakfast. Grissom stood up and began gathering empty plates and bowls.

"Leave all that," she said, watching him warily, "It's the least I can do after you cooked."

He nodded his head, then set the dishes in the sink. "I'm going to email my work in," he said.

She reached out her hand to his, holding him back. "Gil, is everything okay?" she asked, trying to keep her tone light.

He looked down at her and smiled. "Yeah," he said and squeezed her hand. "I just…need to send the email now, so they can notify the students."

"Sure," Sara said, letting go of his hand. They were taking baby steps, but at least they were moving in the right direction.

She was soaking in the tub when he joined her in the bathroom. He stood bare-chested in his boxers, and for a short moment her heart beat faster at the thought that he was coming to join her. No such luck, but then again the tub _was_ on the small side. She had twisted the shower curtain over the rail, and half-sat, half-laid folded in there, long limbs sticking out and barely covered with water.

He paused and overtly ran his eyes over the length of her before turning to the basin. One lingering look was all it took to reignite the smouldering embers in the pit of her stomach. Grissom _was_ a selfless lover, and she smiled on remembering how tender their love had been earlier that morning. Oblivious, he brushed his teeth. Then he filled the basin with warm water, washed his face and after gathering cream and razor began methodically shaving around his beard, while she watched enraptured.

Turning his face away, he started with the right side, as was his custom, then did the left one before pausing just as he was about to start on his neck. Suddenly conscious that she was staring, he smiled and flicked his eyes at her in the mirror. Their gazes locked for several long moments until his eyes lowered before coming up again, and he shook his head.

"I know what you're doing," he said. "And it's not going to work."

"You got to understand," she said, making a playful pout, "that it feels exactly like sandpaper." Her hand came out of the water and for good measure she stroked over her sore cheek.

His eyes refocused on his reflection and he ran his hand up and down his beard a few times. He seemed to consider his options, then he sighed and picked up the can of shaving cream. Quickly, he squirted a large dollop in his hand and spread it over his beard before bringing his razor to it.

"I was thinking," he said after a while, keeping his eyes on his reflection as he shaved. He let his words trail, lowered the razor and then turned toward her. "I think it's time I told my mother."

Sara sat up in the bath then pushed to her feet and automatically he reached for a towel which he opened for her as she stepped out.

"She'll want to come," he went on, "or worse she'll want me to come home, and I don't want to do that."

"Why not?" she almost asked, but despite her mouth opening the words didn't come out. She didn't want to get into that argument now, not when she still knew so little about his treatment. She just watched as looking torn he turned back to the sink and after a moment's pause continued shaving.

"I think you should do it," she said, and pausing he met her gaze through the mirror. Her shoulder lifted. "I think you should tell her. She's got a right to know." She let her words sink in, knowing he'd pick up the subtext.

His eyes lowered and he nodded his head. "I know," he said in a sigh, "I just don't know how to do it."

"We'll find a way," she said, and Grissom nodded his head gratefully.

While waiting for Grissom to finish getting ready so he could take Hank for a walk, Sara stripped the bed and changed the sheets. She would have about fifteen minutes until they returned, longer if Hank had his way. When she heard the downstairs door clang shut, she went to the living room and pulled her phone out of her purse. She'd put the call off long enough. It would be past midnight in Vegas and she hoped DB was in and not out at a crime scene.

The previous evening, she'd thought about what she would say, how best to announce she wasn't coming back, not straightaway anyway, whether to mention Grissom's cancer or not. She was sure Grissom wouldn't want her to, not when he was so hesitant to tell his own mother, but DB would want, would need a valid reason. Sighing, she perched herself on the arm of the couch and restlessly waited for the call to connect.

DB picked up on the second ring. "Hang on a sec, Sara," he said by way of greeting, sounding his usual chirpy self. There was a pause before he came back on the line.

"Am I catching you at a bad time?" she asked.

"No, not at all. I'm at the office, doing paperwork. It's a slow night here. I just shut the door so we wouldn't be disturbed. I tell you what," he added quickly, "Why don't I call you back? You know what they're like, they'll charge you for that call."

"It's all right," Sara said brightly. "It won't take long."

"Let me call you back," he insisted. "There's something I need to speak with you about anyway."

Sara frowned, but before she could ask what it was about, he'd disconnected the call and she did the same. A few seconds later her phone rang, his name flashing on the display, and she picked up.

"How's Paris?" he asked casually, and she could imagine him sitting at his desk with his feet resting on the edge of it and his glasses in his hand. Whatever he needed to tell her didn't seem that urgent so Sara relaxed. "Barbara's real envious. Won't stop nagging about it."

Laughing, Sara told him about Paris and the places she had revisited. He didn't ask, but she could tell by the concern in his voice that he wanted to know about Grissom and the state of her marriage. So she told him that they'd talked and made up, leaving out of course the reason why Grissom had broken up in the first place. She asked about Barbara, and they exchanged a few more pleasantries before he cut it short.

"I don't suppose you've been checking your work emails, have you?" he asked, his voice losing all trace of joviality.

Sara was filled with a sense of foreboding as she remembered she had a couple of court appearances coming up. "No, I haven't," she replied edgily.

"I don't blame you," he said and paused, and she waited, knowing he was searching for the right words to tell her. "Listen, Sara, there is no easy way to say this so I'm just going to go ahead with it…I got a call from the DA. Javier Santiago's trial's been brought forward."

Javier Santiago was suspected of raping and murdering three teenage girls over a period of nine months, a fact he adamantly denied. His record was clean and he had no priors that would suggest his tendencies. The first two girls had simply vanished and then been reported missing by their respective families. The disappearances appeared to be two unrelated events, until a dog walker had stumbled upon the body of the third girl.

The killer had raped and strangled his victims before dumping them in shallow graves yards from each other. Unfortunately and despite their best effort, the CSI's had no physical evidence to pin the first two cases on the suspect – the bodies were far too decomposed to yield anything except for manner of death – and Sara had worked around the clock, painstakingly analysing and interpreting every shred of evidence she'd collected on the third body to get retribution for all three lives. And she had found it.

She swallowed the tight ball that had lodged in her throat. "How much forward?"

"July the first. You should be back by then, I know, but…well, I thought you'd want to know."

Her heart sank at the news, and she thought his words over. She had a choice to make: either go back for the trial or stay with Grissom for the duration of his treatment. She'd invested hours of work in order to put a case together with the DA to prove not one but three murders, and until last week she would have paid to be allowed on the stand. But even as she thought about it, she realised her mind was already made up, that there was no choice. Grissom came first. "I appreciate you letting me know, but…" she sighed, "the thing is…the reason I was calling…" she trailed off.

"Sara? What is it?"

"I…" She closed her eyes and massaged her forehead. She could feel a headache coming. She got up and began to pace. "DB, I need to extend my leave."

There was a pause. "How long for?"

"Well, that's the thing…"

"That thing again, huh?" he interrupted in a sigh. "I have a feeling I'm not going to like that _thing_ very much."

"Something's come up this end, and I'm going to need a few more weeks at the very least."

"Weeks?"

"Months maybe."

DB took in a slow breath which he let out ever more slowly. "Sara, you worked so hard to put this guy behind bars," he said, his tone showing exasperation, "I don't understand. Is there anyway you could maybe come back, even temporarily? I know the DA was heavily relying on your testimony. What on earth could possibly be more important than being back for this?"

"My husband," she said determinedly. "My husband and my marriage are more important than this."

There was a pause, and she imagined he was pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to keep a lid on his growing frustration. "All right, Sara," he said, calmer again, "Level with me, will you? What's going on?"

Sara paused, hesitating. She knew Grissom wouldn't want everyone to know about the cancer, but she also knew that she couldn't lie to Russell, that she'd need him on board if she wanted to keep her job. "Gil's…sick," she said, her eyes filling, and left it at that.

DB must have sensed the seriousness of the situation because his tone showed concern and contrition when he next spoke. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said, and she knew he meant it, that for him family always came first.

"Maybe Nick can testify in my place," she offered. "I mean he worked on the case too."

"Yeah, but not like you did."

"The case report and all my notes are detailed," she continued in earnest. "I'm sorry, DB. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

He let out a long exhale. "I know," he said in a caring tone. "Don't worry about it. We'll sort something out. I'll even testify myself if I have to."

Relief flooded her. "Thank you. All the paperwork's done," she reiterated. "Everything is documented; my notes and observations are extensive."

"Don't you worry about all that now," he said, "there is time. And I'll talk to the DA; see if he can't appeal the change of date. We never know."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said. "But Sara, just so that I have a rough idea of the time span here. How much leave are we talking about?"

Sara had a moment's hesitation before she answered, "I don't know."

Sara ended the call soon after that. She would have to call her mother too and tell her, but she would do it later. She'd never told her that she and Grissom had split up in the first place – she'd never found the right time – and Laura thought she was in Paris on vacation.

"Everything all right?" Grissom asked. Sara turned toward him with a start. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

She tried a smile, but she knew it wasn't convincing. She hadn't heard the door open, heralding their return, and she wondered now how much of the conversation he'd heard. "I called work," she said as casually as she could manage while putting her phone away, "and extended my leave."

He gave her a nod. "I was thinking," he said, his gaze lowering hesitantly to Hank's leash in his hands, and looked up. "My last course of radiation starts tonight with more tomorrow and Saturday, and… Would you come with me? I thought maybe you could meet with everyone." He sighed and then shrugged his shoulder as though in apology for making a bigger deal of it than was necessary.

Their baby steps had suddenly become strides. Smiling through her tears she covered the distance to him. He tossed Hank's leash on to the coffee table, opened his arms to her and falling in his embrace she closed her eyes and breathed a long sigh of relief.


	16. Chapter 16

"I know not whither tends my path,

But sweeter 'tis when my hand hath

Grasp of your own."

-Alfred de Musset, _To my Brother returning from Italy_.

* * *

Grissom paid the taxi while Sara stood on the sidewalk, gazing up in awe, in fear, at the imposing façade of the Hôpital Hôtel-Dieu de Paris. There, as she stared at the words _Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité_, the national motto of France etched in stone above the main entrance, she was filled with a sudden, inexplicable sense of dread. Despite the bright sunshine overhead she felt cold, and wanted nothing more than for them to get back in the cab and go home, lock the apartment door and hide.

Why couldn't today end just as it had begun?

They'd caught the RER B line to Châtelet – Les Halles and had slowly walked the rest of the way to the Pompidou Centre, hand in hand, like two tourists without a care in the world. The modern art and culture museum was light and airy, cool and spacious, uncrowded on that Thursday, and they took their time to look at each exhibit, study them, read about them in great detail. The Dalí exhibition itself – more than two hundred paintings, sculptures and drawings, as well as films, extracts from broadcasts and photographs – covered the whole of the third floor and was fascinating.

Grissom was relaxed and content, unhurried, the look of awe and wonder never leaving his face. It was a rare treat, for both of them, to just while time away looking at art, and yet, despite her outward gaiety, Sara was at pains to relax fully and truly enjoy the moment. How could she, when time ticked away and she heard every passing second? He had brought his camera and sometimes would insist that she posed for him, but every click of the shutter, every image recorded for posterity, felt like a tiny prick in her heart.

After a while he began to slow down, needing to catch his breath, and she worried he was overdoing things as he tried to make up for lost time. She would cast surreptitious glances at him, searching for minute changes in his demeanour, in his look, strength levels, changes that would indicate he was in pain, or struggling. All the while, her smile stayed on. Every so often, she would casually suggest they took a break, find somewhere to sit for a few moments, but he'd say 'Not to fuss', that he was fine and enjoying himself. And she was, too, despite it all.

Afterward, they ate a simple lunch outside, on the shaded pavement terrace of a small restaurant a stone's throw away from the museum, chosen simply because he'd liked the name of it: _Le Petit Marcel_. And then just like that, before they had a chance to order dessert, the light had gone out of his eyes and he'd asked the waiter to call them a cab. It was time to go home. All afternoon as she watched him rest her feelings of restlessness and anxiety grew and, however hard she tried, she simply couldn't shake them away.

And they were still present now, twisting her insides.

"There's been a hospital on this very site since 651," Grissom said, joining her side. "Of course, this building is much more recent, dating from the late nineteenth century, as I recall." Sara glanced at him and he smiled. "You ready?"

Swallowing the tight ball firmly lodged in her throat she nodded her head. His hand slid to the small of her back, ever guiding, ever comforting, and they set off toward the main entrance, the automatic doors opening as they approached. The interior was bright, clean and orderly. There were numerous people milling about, but a sense of calm, peace and quiet efficiency permeated the place, hushed noises and voices that helped appease some of her tension. Except for the written and spoken French all around and the differing uniforms, this could be any hospital in the States.

Grissom bypassed the front desk, steering her directly to the bank of elevators on the right-hand side, and pressed the button to go up. As they waited, Sara's eyes wandered to the hospital directory to the left of them, scanning for the oncology department. Grissom grasped her hand and held on to it firmly. Glancing over at him she forced a wan smile.

"It's okay," he said lightly, giving her hand a squeeze, "We won't get lost. I know exactly where we're going." Her smile widened, and he gave her a wink. "You okay?"

She gave him a vigorous nod. Then she sighed, shrugged her shoulder. "I'm a little…apprehensive," she admitted reluctantly.

"That's to be expected," he said. The right elevator doors opened and they stepped in. Grissom pressed the button for the third floor and looked over at her hesitantly. "Sara, there's truly nothing to worry about. Not with radiation. The whole thing takes about half-hour, an hour at the most. The radiation itself only takes a few minutes, but the setting up, the exact positioning of the beam, can take longer depending on the radiographer. They'll need to do new scans too, which we'll review tomorrow with Dr Fournier."

Sara's ears pricked up at this titbit of information. At last, she thought, I get to meet the man in charge. "Does it hurt?"

"The radiation itself?" he asked, and then when she nodded, "No, not at all, not while it's being given anyway. Mainly I lie on the table as still as I possibly can and try not to go to sleep. Afterwards, it depends." He gave her a weak smile. "It tends to make me nauseous and tired, more so than usual," he added with a feeble laugh.

The elevator doors opened. They made their way to the reception desk, and Grissom checked in. The receptionist tapped a few keys on the computer, then searched through a stack of files and pulled out his. She asked for his details, checked them against the information she had and when satisfied that everything matched informed him that radiology was running a little late. Grissom nodded, and they went to sit down in the waiting area. There were already a few people seated there, waiting, minding their business.

"I always have the last appointment of the day on a Thursday," he explained, "to fit in with my schedule, and they invariably run late."

Sara nodded at him, then picked up a magazine from the table and spent the next few minutes flicking through it without interest. "How come…you're not staying overnight?" she asked suddenly, looking up over at him expectantly. She'd been wondering ever since he'd left the apartment without an overnight bag, unlike the previous week when Francine had picked him up.

His eyes narrowed in a silent question before he remembered that she'd been there, watching. "The chemo part of the treatment is over," he said. "For now anyway."

"Over?"

He nodded. "I had my last course last week, concurrently with the radiation."

"How come?"

Grissom frowned. "How come what?"

"How come they stopped the chemo? Surely―"

"Monsieur Grissom?"

Grissom turned toward the voice without answering, and Sara hesitantly followed suit. The man standing before them wore a white lab coat with the words, _Département de Radiologie_, embossed on the right breast and a pleasant expression. Grissom stood up, and they shook hands while exchanging a few pleasantries in French before Grissom turned to her with a smile. She pushed to her feet.

"Cyril," Grissom said, his hand finding the small of her back possessively, "Je vous présente Sara, ma femme." My wife. If Cyril was surprised by her presence there he didn't let on. "Sara, this is Cyril. Cyril is my tattoo artist."

Sara frowned, then it dawned on her that he was referring to the small permanent ink marks on his stomach. When she had first noticed them and subsequently studied them at length, he had explained that they were there to save time as the radiographer used them to align and aim the radiation beams exactly to the tumours.

"He's also very quick," Grissom added as a loud aside.

After a short delay Cyril's face lit up in amusement and he shook his head. "Enchanté," he told Sara, smiling pleasantly.

"Moi aussi," Sara said, returning the smile. Me too.

"Your husband is between good hands," the radiographer said in halting English, eyes flicking to Grissom for approval.

"_In_ good hands," Grissom corrected mildly.

"My English is not so good," Cyril said addressing Sara, "Mister Grissom, he is teaching me." And then turning to Grissom, "Vous êtes prêt?"

Grissom nodded his head, and was about to follow Cyril when he changed his mind. "Everything's going to be fine," he told her earnestly. "You can wait here, I won't be long."

Sara forced a smile, nodded her head. She didn't want him to go.

He hesitated before lifting his hand to her face and then kissed her softly on the lips. Then he stepped back, giving her one last smile before turning away following where Cyril had gone, a little down the corridor and through heavy double-swing doors.

"Gil!" she called hoarsely, then hurried over to him, her hand shooting out, catching him by the shoulder as he pushed through the doors. He paused, turning toward her expectantly. "I love you," she said, barely mouthing the words, and gave him a tremulous smile.

His face softened with love and he took a step toward her. "I love you too," he said, smiling back, and then without hesitation leaned in for another kiss. "I won't be long."

Sara watched him disappear through the double doors _interdit au public_, forbidden to her and everyone else not on staff, and reluctantly turned on her heels, headed back to the waiting area. Avoiding the glances of the few people still sitting there, she made a beeline for the small curtainless window and stood rigid with tension, staring out at the moving traffic below.

Her eyes locked onto a red delivery truck and she followed its progress through the intersection, up along the Seine for a hundred yards or so, losing it as it turned off near Notre-Dame Cathedral. Her eyes remained fixed in that direction for a long moment, unblinking, unseeing, as she tried to imagine what was happening with him right now. _Mainly I lie on the table as still as I possibly can and try not to go to sleep. _He made it sound like undergoing radiotherapy was nothing. Minutes passed before she moved away from her spot. There was a small coffee vending machine in the corner and Sara fed some coins into it, purchasing a black coffee she wouldn't drink.

A brown plastic cup dropped down onto the tray. The machine whirred and she watched as it spurted hot liquid into the cup, only half-filling it. Two women behind her shared a laugh and idly she turned toward them, finding them bent over a cell phone and giggling at what they were reading. She wondered whether, like her, they were waiting for a loved one, and if so, how could they be laughing?

She checked her watch and carefully picked up the cup, slowly making her way back to the desk. An orderly walked past, pushing a cart full of dirty linens. She knew it was too early for him to be out already, but she'd never been good at waiting, especially not in a hospital, and she needed to stretch her legs.

"Je peux vous aider?" the desk clerk asked, looking up as Sara hovered nearby. Can I help you?

Sara paused. "Oui," she replied hesitantly, and then in halting French, "My husband is having radiotherapy, and…I was wondering if Docteur Fournier…where can I find him?"

The clerk's expression was pinched as she listened intently, and Sara cursed her lack of French. "Docteur Fournier?" the clerk repeated with puzzlement. "Il n'est pas là aujourd'hui." He is not here today.

"Oh." Sara gave a nod, thanked the woman and turned away, headed back to the waiting area.

It gradually emptied until she was the last person remaining. When an hour later he still wasn't out she knew something was wrong. She went back to the clerk and asked as best as she could if she could call someone and find out what was taking so long. Gilbert Grissom, Sara kept repeating his name, going as far as mimicking French pronunciation. The clerk explained that these things often took time, but eventually picked up the phone. There and then, as she listened to a one-sided conversation, Sara vowed to take French lessons. The clerk put the phone down and told Sara that someone would be through shortly to speak with her. A few minutes later Cyril came through and Sara rushed over to him.

"What happened?" she asked, "Is Gil—Monsieur Grissom all right?"

Cyril gave her a smile and a vigorous nod. "Yes," he said, and paused. "He is fine. Sick. We put him in bed. Observation. He must stay for the night."

"Can I see him?"

Cyril sighed. He seemed to ponder his reply, but finally nodded his head. "A little bit," he said.

Sara took Cyril's arm and squeezed it in thanks. Then Cyril took Sara through the double doors and down a long corridor and through more double doors that took them to another part of the hospital. He knocked on a door, then pushed it open and they stepped inside a room with two beds. The smell of vomit permeated the room. Cyril went to talk to the nurse and they left. Grissom was in the bed furthest from the door near the window. The other bed was empty, stripped to the mattress. He wore a hospital gown and was half-sitting up, propped up by some pillows. He was holding a cardboard sick bowl in front of him.

"Gil," she called quietly, rushing to his bedside. He looked dreadful, as white as a sheet, cheeks sunken and eyes rimmed with black circles. How could he have looked so well one minute, and so sick the next? There was a film of tears in his eyes and he wouldn't meet her gaze directly. It was as though he was embarrassed. She was going to speak when he suddenly sat up forward and began retching over the bowl.

"They're…keeping me in overnight," he said, sounding utterly dejected.

"That's okay," she tried lightly, but the dark look he threw her told him it wasn't. "Do you need me to get your stuff for you? Your medication."

"No," he said, quietly.

She pinched her lips. "What happened?" she asked, trying the keep her emotion out of her voice.

"They don't know. Maybe I've picked up a bug," he said, his tone detached, "or maybe—" He paused, closed his eyes and took in a deep breath through his nose, but it was in vain. And this time it was more than dry heaves. Afterwards, keeping his eyes averted he held the bowl away and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Sara grabbed a clean bowl from the side, swapping it for his, which she set aside for the nurse to dispose of. She filled up a plastic cup with water from a jug and silently held it out to him. He still wasn't looking at her but he took the cup and wet his lips with it. There was a little spit on his gown and she moved toward a roll of blue paper towels and tore off a few sheets.

"I don't want you to do this, Sara," he said in a small voice as she passed him a tissue to wipe his mouth and then began to dab at his chest. He turned his body away, "Please, don't do this."

Sara paused, and regarded him in utter bewilderment. "Don't do what?"

"This," he said flatly.

"What, care for you?" she asked, and she wished she didn't sound so offhand, so defensive.

"Play nurse. I don't want you to play nurse, Sara."

"Play nurse?" she repeated, bewilderment making way to anger. "Do you think that's what I'm doing?"

"Sara, I'm fine," he said in a sigh. "Please, don't fuss."

"I'm not…_fussing_," she said, defensively. "I'm helping. Gil, I can't just sit by and watch while you struggle. I want to be there for you, help you."

"The nurse can do all that."

"Yes, she can, and so can I," she retorted through gritted teeth, as calmly as she could.

Grissom took a couple of deep breath and moved the bowl in front of him, at the ready, but nothing came.

"Gil," she pleaded in a sigh, "please, don't do this."

"I don't want you to see me like this. It's…degrading, humiliating. It's—"

The nurse came back inside the room, cutting his fraught words short. She glanced at them with a smile, then went to rummage in boxes on shelves on the far wall, pulling out whatever equipment she needed to tend to Grissom. She slipped on purple latex gloves and carried over her load to the bed table, which she dragged over to the bed. On it was a saline bag and everything needed to put a drip into his arm.

"Vous devez partir, madame," the nurse said, not unkindly. You have to leave.

Sara nodded her head. Then she stood back, watching powerlessly from the other side as Grissom simply let the nurse take over and tend to his needs. He set the clean sick bowl on the table, complying when she asked for his right arm so she could wrap the blood pressure cuff around his bicep.

Sara glanced toward the nurse. "Don't push me away," she pleaded. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, Gil."

"Go home, Sara, please."

"Home where?" she thought. "Here, or in Vegas?"

Turning her face away to hide her sorrow she clamped her mouth shut before the words came out. It was the cancer talking, she told herself, the pain, the drugs, the loss of pride, of dignity. It was the cancer talking, not him. Not when he'd been so loving toward her all throughout the day. Tears pricked her eyes, but she didn't shed them. He hurt, and he was lashing out. She'd done it often enough herself to recognise the behaviour. Still, it cut deep. But he needed space, so she'd give it to him.

"I'll come back tomorrow," she said in a quiet voice glancing at the nurse.

He was looking away. His face was stubbornly averted, seemingly watching with rapt fascination as the nurse disinfected the spot where she would fix the cannula. The muscles in his jaw twitched with tension, with the effort it took to keep his act up. And she ached for him. She reached her hand to his arm, to the side of his face, to his cheek he had shaved for her in such a happy mood, and hoped he knew how much she loved him. When the nurse looked up at her pointedly, she had no choice than drag herself away.

"I'll be back tomorrow."


	17. Chapter 17

"We come to love not by finding a perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly."

-Sam Keen, _To Love and Be Loved_.

* * *

Sara remained outside his room, unable to leave, unable to leave him, for a long moment. She felt numb, numb and alone. Questions raced in her mind, and she cursed his pride and stubbornness. But above all she cursed this wretched cancer. Had he lied to her? Had he played down his pain, his true condition? Was it worse than he'd let on? What if he got worse in the night, she couldn't help thinking? Would he even ask the hospital to notify her? Was she even his next-of-kin here in France?

Hospital personnel came and went, throwing conspicuous glances at her on their way, but no one spoke to her, not even to question why she was there, loitering. Would they notice if she curled up in a corner until morning? Eventually, the nurse that was tending to his needs left his room, pausing at the door when she noticed her waiting there. She gave her a smile and was about to walk on when she hesitated.

"Il dort, madame," the nurse told her quietly. He is sleeping.

"Il a mal?" Is he in pain?

"Non, plus maintenant." Not anymore.

Sara swallowed, nodded her head.

"C'est l'heure de partir maintenant."

Sara nodded, returned the smile briefly and watched forlornly as the nurse walked away. Yes, it was time to go. With one last glance at his door she turned away, finally headed home. She would walk. It wasn't far and the fresh air would do her good, give her time to think. The sun was low in the sky and she slipped her sunglasses on. She crossed over to the left bank of the Seine and followed the fast flowing river down to the fifth arrondissement, unknowingly retracing the exact steps Grissom had walked on the day he'd been told he had pancreatic cancer over four months previously.

Hank wasn't there to greet her when she got home, and she felt his absence acutely, missing his comforting presence, his ready affection. It reminded her of Vegas, of when she got home from work, tired and drained, to an empty house. She flicked lights on in the apartment, opened the windows and shutters wide in the living room, letting in night air and sounds. She thought about fetching Hank from the Louboutins but opted not to and instead kicked off her shoes, put some music on. The first piano notes of Chopin's _Études_ filled the silence of the room. It was late now, nearly nine pm. She should make herself some dinner, but she wasn't hungry.

In the kitchen, she looked through cupboards, finally locating a dusty bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Her body was tense, her movements jerky, and she stared at the bottle in her hand, willing the tremor to cease. She took out a tall wine glass, found the corkscrew and opened the bottle, filling her glass up. She took a long gulp, closing her eyes as she swallowed, then headed to the living room, turning lights off as she went. She would only have a glass, she told herself. The wine would help unwind her. It would dull her pain and the turmoil in her head.

She moved to one of the opened windows. Chopin played on softly in the background. She took a sip of her wine and gazed out at the street below. Her vision blurred suddenly and the tears she'd managed to keep in until now came. She wiped at them, but still they flowed, silently, unbidden. She drank some more. When her glass was empty, she fetched the bottle from the kitchen and refilled it, before once more taking up her post at the window. Somewhere out there, he slept, hurt, alone.

She was waiting. She felt like Penelope waiting for Odysseus' return. She sipped some wine, then a little more, blinked to clear the haze in her eyes. A car slowly drove past the building and idly she followed its progress until it disappeared out of sight. The streetlights flickered on, shining weakly at first, then gradually increasing in intensity, casting a soft, mesmerising orange glow all around. Still, she waited. She felt better though, the alcohol doing the trick as expected.

At some point, she called the care facility where her mother was staying, spoke to a harried clerk who promptly informed her that Laura wasn't currently in her room. Sara left a message for her mother, thanked the clerk. She thought about calling Greg. She wanted to catch up with him, tell him in person she wasn't coming back just yet, ask him to pack and FedEx some more stuff for her. She needed, craved, some form of human contact, even remote, but he'd see straight through her melancholy and she was in no state to explain.

Minutes passed, hours maybe; she didn't know. She didn't care. Morning would soon come, and they would be reunited. She brought the glass to her lips; it was empty, the bottle too. She wasn't nearly drunk enough. Empty glass in hand and in search of another bottle, she trudged back to the kitchen. She flicked the light on and made to put the glass down on the countertop but misjudged its height, breaking the glass cleanly in half at the stem, and watched in slow motion as the fine crystal smashed on the tile floor, exploding in tiny pieces around her bare feet.

Her tears returned with a vengeance, and still holding on to the unbroken half of the glass she set about picking up the pieces. She didn't dare move her feet. Her hands were shaking, her head was spinning, and still she collected glass, putting each broken piece inside the glass itself. She had to pick up every last piece, get rid of the evidence before anyone found out. She felt a tiny prick in the palm of her left hand, but it didn't hurt. She was almost there.

"Shit," she half-laughed, half-cried as blood began to drip onto the floor.

She stood up too quickly, and took a moment, eyes closed, to steady herself. Blood still dripped, all over the countertop, all over herself, and quickly she put the glass down, reaching over to turn the tap on in the sink. She didn't move her feet. She ran her hand under the cold water, fisted at first, then slowly unclenching it, and watched unfeeling as blood trickled out of the wound mixing with water, following the creases in her palm before disappearing down the drain. It all seemed to be happening in slow motion somehow.

The cut wasn't deep, but the bleeding didn't seem to want to stop so she wrapped her hand in the dishcloth laid out to dry. In the bathroom, she searched through the medicine cabinet, rifled through drawers for Band-Aids, but there were none. She unrolled the dishcloth, checking on the wound, which was still bleeding. Maybe the cut was worse than it looked, she thought distantly. Ah, well. She picked up her purse and went out. She was sure the Casino on the next street was open until late, and as well as Band-Aids, she could always buy another bottle.

Holding tightly onto the banister, she staggered down the darkened wooden stairs. When she reached the ground floor, she paused and closed her eyes to stop the spinning in her head. She could feel a headache coming. Her feet were cold. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. She heard whimpering coming from her left. A door opened, letting out a ray of light into the lobby, and Hank came out, tail wagging happy to see her. Happy to see him too, she bent down and returned his affection, mindful of her injured hand.

"You're going for a walk?" she asked him, "Me too."

Sara looked up, finding Madame Louboutin standing there, watching the interaction fondly, Hank's leash in her hand. Her friendly smile became a frown as Sara gingerly pushed to her feet. Madame Louboutin's eyes lowered to her abdomen and the crudely bandaged hand she was holding there and then all the way down to her feet. A brow rose before she brought her gaze up again. There was curiosity there, mixed in with amusement and a slight haughtiness she was sure the older woman didn't mean.

"Tout va bien, Madame Grissom?" Madame Louboutin asked, cracking a smile. Is everything all right?

"Oui, oui," Sara replied, as breezily as she could muster in the circumstance, "tout va très bien. Je vais me promener." I'm just going for a walk. Hank nuzzled her injured hand and gently she pushed him away.

Madame Louboutin's gaze pointedly dropped to Sara's feet. She was smiling. Broadly. "Pieds nus?"

Sara frowned. She knew that 'pied' meant 'foot', but 'nus'? Her gaze followed that of the older woman's, and she burst out laughing. "I-I forgot…j'ai oublié mes chaussettes," she said with a sheepish grin.

Warmth and affection softened the lines on the older woman's face. She pinched her lips, visibly stifling amusement, and Sara felt herself the object of a joke she didn't comprehend. Soon, the look of concern returned in Madame Louboutin's eyes, and she nodded toward Sara's hand, asking caringly whether she'd hurt it.

Sara lifted her bandaged hand in front of her. "I cut myself," she said in English, suddenly sobering up, "On glass." She paused, groped for some French and explained as best she could that it didn't hurt and that she was headed to the pharmacy.

"A cette heure-ci?" At this hour? Madame Louboutin had a moment's hesitation. "Come with me," she told Sara in French, turning back the way she had come from, "I have everything you need here."

Sara hesitated. She looked at Hank who was watching her expectantly, as if saying, "Are you coming then, or what?", and together they followed the concierge's wife into the apartment. The television was on in the lounge, tuned in to some variety show, and as she walked past she caught a glimpse of Monsieur Louboutin dozing with his mouth half-open in front of it. It made her smile, because in her drunken state she saw Grissom there in a similar pose.

Madame Louboutin returned from a room at the back of the apartment carrying a small metal box and indicated the kitchen to Sara. After closing the door, she set the box on the table, opened the catch and took out a small glass bottle of clear liquid, some small squares of gauze and a roll of bandage. She motioned for Sara to sit down and show her the wound. Hank settled himself on the tile floor next to Sara while she carefully pulled off the dishcloth, exposing her bloodied palm. Dry blood had begun to crust over in places, but the wound was still oozing.

Madame Louboutin winced, then took a seat next to Sara. Should she maybe have the cut stitched up, or glued, Sara wondered idly? Madame Louboutin opened the bottle, dabbed some liquid onto the gauze and began cleaning the wound. The sting of the disinfectant made Sara pull her hand back, but Madame Louboutin held on to it firmly and gently continued with her task.

Sara felt like a child whose mother was making everything better. It felt good. It was nice to be taken care of, for once. The smell of ethanol tickled her nostrils, and she picked up the bottle with her free hand, her brow rising as she read the label: _Alcool modifié 70 % vol._ No wonder it stung. Grissom would have been kinder and used Neosporin.

"Monsieur Grissom est à l'hôpital?" Madame Louboutin asked, drawing Sara out of her thoughts.

Sara looked up from her hand and met the other woman's soft gaze. She took a breath, nodded her head.

"I am sorry," Madame Louboutin said in English and offered Sara a small smile.

Tears filled Sara's eyes at such consideration, but Madame Louboutin said nothing more about it. She simply unrolled the bandage and cut it down to size. When she finished dressing Sara's hand, she got up from the table and put some water on the boil. Then she took out two mugs and tea bags, and Sara set about carefully tidying everything back into the first aid box.

"Chamomile," Madame Louboutin explained in French, "It will help you sleep."

Sara gave a wistful smile; if only it was that simple. When the water reached boiling point Madame Louboutin took the pan off the heat and tossed in the two teabags. She picked up a spoon and stirred, then covered the pan with a lid and left it to infuse. For the first time that day, Sara felt at peace. Madame Louboutin produced a slice of apple tart and a jar of honey, explaining that she couldn't drink the tea without it. The apple tart she served on a chipped plate which she pushed in front of Sara. Sara never thought of turning it down.

Suddenly hungry, Sara ate the tart with gusto, and afterward they sipped their infusions in silence, their gazes meeting every so often, their smiles somewhat complicit. Sara was glad for the company – it seemed the feeling was mutual – and grateful her companion wasn't the prying type. The look in the older woman's eyes told Sara she knew all about what Sara was going through anyway, and Sara understood that she was no stranger to cancer and pain herself.

"Hank still needs to be walked," Madame Louboutin said when they'd finished their second cups, nodding toward Hank.

Sara looked down at Hank and smiled, understanding the subtext very clearly, even though it was in French. Then she nodded her head, grateful. "Merci."

Madame Louboutin acknowledged Sara's thanks with a nod, then stood up and took their mugs and Sara's plate to the sink to wash. "Just remember to put your _shoes_ on this time," she said, laughter in her voice.

Sara laughed and shook her head. _Chaussures_, _chaussettes_, she'd always gotten those two words mixed up. She definitely needed to start those lessons and the sooner, the better. She was sure she still had that number in her purse somewhere and she'd give it a call the next day. Madame Louboutin returned to the table with a sponge, and on the spur of the moment Sara wrapped an awkward arm around her, a hug Madame Louboutin returned warmly.

"Just drop Hank off tomorrow before you leave for the hospital," Madame Louboutin said with a smile, when Sara stepped back, "We'll look after him for you. He's a good dog." She set the sponge down on the table and opened the first aid box, taking out the leftover gauze and bandage, which she placed in Sara's hand. "For tomorrow."

Sara's tears came again, and she cursed herself for being so emotional, so transparent, but she wasn't used to such friendliness, to such kindness, not from a stranger, even a neighbour. She didn't even know her neighbours' names in Vegas.

Sara woke the next day the way she had fallen asleep; in bed, wearing Grissom's robe and with Hank who was taking most of the space next to her. Daylight filtered in through the crack in the shutters. She looked at the clock, her eyes widening at how late it was.

"Shit," she said, and jumped out of bed, too fast, judging by the sudden pain in her head. She'd managed to sleep nine hours straight, a record by her standards, but now she worried she would miss Grissom's appointment with Docteur Fournier.

Hank's head lifted off the bed and he considered her while she considered herself in the small mirror on the chest of drawers. She'd taken a long shower after their walk, and her damp hair had dried while she'd slept and now stuck up all over the place. She looked a sight for sore eyes but apart for the headache felt surprisingly refreshed. The healing cut in her hand felt tight under the bandage, but it still looked clean so she didn't change it. After a brief trip the bathroom, she got dressed quickly in a blouse and jeans, brushed her hair out, tying it in a ponytail, took two headache pills and applied a little makeup.

Then she brushed her teeth and packed a bag with a change of clothes and toiletry stuff for Grissom, his medication and pyjamas. She hoped he wouldn't need the latter, but it would save her a trip home again if he did. On impulse she added the copy of _The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared_ he was a third of the way through reading, his wedding ring, which she put in her purse with hers, and the framed photo taken on their wedding day. And their pocket French/English dictionary.

In the kitchen she cleaned up the mess she'd made the previous evening and packed a little breakfast she'd eat on the way. Hank was hurried out of the apartment and dropped off at the Louboutins. She'd thought of calling a cab, but decided she'd rather walk than wait for the cab to turn up.

Half an hour later, flushed and breathless, she arrived at her destination. She made her way to Oncology, and rehearsing the French she'd prepared in her head on the way over headed for the front desk. She was told Grissom had had a good night and was still in his room, waiting to be taken to radiology. A wave of relief washing over her at the news, she thanked the nurse and went to his room.

She paused at the door, took a deep breath and after a brief knock went in. He was sitting up in bed, looking out the window. Idly, she wondered whether he was thinking about climbing out of it and disappearing. He turned toward her. His eyes lit up first, then the rest of his face. His hand lifted off his lap toward her, and a trembling smile on her lips she closed the distance to the bed, grasping his hand tightly. She could feel the tears in her eyes, but unlike the previous evening they were tears of joy.

"I'm sorry, love," he said in a whisper, watching her tenderly, and cupped his hand to her face, "I'm so sorry."


	18. Chapter 18

"Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We only have today. Let us begin."

-Mother Teresa.

* * *

Sara could only nod her head at his heartfelt apology. Her emotion was such that words failed her. She gave him a tremulous smile and with one earnest squeeze of his hand told him he was forgiven, that she understood it was the cancer that had made him react the way he had. The head of the bed was raised, and Grissom sat on top of the covers with his legs stretched out in front of him. A little colour had returned to his face, but he still looked pallid and tired. The IV drip was still hooked to a vein in his left arm, and he wore a hospital gown and yesterday's socks on his feet.

He took a fraught breath, then stroked his hand to the back of her head and gently pulled her to him until their foreheads touched. She heard him take in and release a long breath, and she knew he too felt relieved and truly sorry for the way he had treated her. He let go of her hand, and they fell into each other's arms, Sara closing her eyes at the rush of wellbeing that filled her. They remained holding each other tightly for a long moment before she pulled back from him.

"How are you?" she asked breathless.

He wiped a quick hand over his eyes and gave her a weak smile. "I'm okay. Better." He shrugged. "Bored. Waiting for someone to take me to radiography."

She frowned, swallowed. "Is that wise?"

"What is?"

"More radiation so soon," she explained, "considering what happened yesterday. I mean―"

"What happened yesterday," he cut in quietly and paused before lifting his shoulder in a shrug and continuing, "Well, it's happened before. I just wasn't expecting it, that's all." The strap of his overnight bag slid off Sara's shoulder and automatically she set the bag on the floor. "I'd been feeling so much better this week and…" his words trailed off as his focus shifted, and he frowned. "What happened to your hand?" he asked, indicating her left hand, and looked up at her with concern.

Her eyes immediately dropped to her hand. "Oh, nothing," she said, trying a carefree smile, and lifted her hand palm up to show him the dressing. Too much detail was bound to tip him off that there was more to the story than she was letting on so she kept the story short. "I smashed a glass and cut myself while picking up the pieces. Not the first time it's happened." His eyes narrowed with a question, with suspicion even, and her smile broadened knowingly. "I didn't take my frustrations out on the wall, if that's what you're thinking." Well, that wasn't a lie.

His lips twitched and he chuckled; that was exactly what he'd been thinking.

She pulled a playful face at him, then averted her gaze to the bag at her feet. It was time for a change of topic. "I brought you some things," she said, lifting the bag in his eye line before putting it back down again. "Clothes and stuff. I can help you get ready if you want."

"Thank you, later maybe. I'll keep the gown on for now. It'll save me getting undressed again for the radiation."

She smiled, nodded. "I didn't know―I mean…" she swallowed. "Are they going to keep you in longer?"

A shadow crossed his face. "I don't know." Reaching for her hand, he sighed. "It'll depend on what the doc says, on the test results they did yesterday."

Sara nodded her head, and they lapsed into silence. Hospital noises drifted into the room from the corridor and she looked away toward the window. From her vantage point she could only see grey, overcast sky stretching over rooftops for miles. Please, she thought, let his test results be good news.

"Sara," he said, and something in his tone sent a shiver down her spine, "I am sorry."

Refocusing on him suddenly she gave him a smile and patted his hand. "I know. Don't worry about it."

He held her gaze; his eyes were soft and uncertain. "It's not the pain. That I can handle. I just…" he took in a deep breath which he let out slowly before admitting in a quiet voice, "I just get so frustrated. I get frustrated with myself, with this disease that…owns me, that I have no control over. I feel so powerless to help myself."

He paused and swallowed. His eyes never left her, and she knew there was more to come. He was finally sharing his fears with her, voicing feelings he normally wouldn't, in the hope she would understand and forgive his behaviour. She already had. When he next spoke his words were pained, fraught, piercing Sara to her core. "I'm scared. I'm scared, Sara," he repeated, louder this time. Tears filled his eyes and he turned away. "I don't think―"

Sara swallowed the tightness in her throat and blinked her tears away. At that moment he needed her to be strong and she would be. Perching on the edge of the bed, she took his face in both her hands and gently turned it toward her until he had no choice but to meet her eyes. "No," she told him calmly, but firmly. "We're not done with this thing yet. You hear me? We're only just getting started. I've been reading about it, and there's plenty more they can try."

His head was shaking; he didn't seem to be hearing her. "Sara, I don't think the treatment's working. I think I'm getting sicker."

The conviction in his words took her breath away. Fear gripped her heart. "You think, or you know?"

He shrugged and shook his head. Then he looked away. He was hiding something. "You got to accept it, Sara. _We_'ve got to accept it, come to terms with it. I'm sick, very sick. They're doing what they can, but…the figures speak for themselves."

The helplessness and resignation, the acceptance of his fate and defeatism in his voice, in his demeanour, made her angry. "I don't care about the figures, Gil. I care about _you_." She'd raised her voice despite herself, and she made herself pause and take a breath. She was shaking. "I can't believe you've given up."

"Given up?" he exclaimed with disbelief, outrage. "Given up?" His tears spilled and he wiped at them angrily. "Is that what you think? That I've given up?"

"Well, have you?"

"No, of course not. Sara, for the past months I have done everything in my power to fight this thing. I have turned my life around. I am taking every goddamn pill there exists. I am deliberately injecting poison in my own body. There hasn't been a day when I haven't been in some kind of pain, or felt sick." His voice was never raised, never angry, just vehement, full of passion, and she realised that she'd been wrong to think him defeatist when maybe realistic was a truer description. That maybe he was simply trying to prepare her for bad news.

"I'm sorry," she mouthed. Blinking she reached out her hand to him. "I didn't mean it like that."

He took a breath and nodded his head, covered her hand on his arm with his. "You've not been here to see it, Sara," he said, calmer now, "but I promise you I am doing everything I can. I'm just being realistic."

"I know," she said, "and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did. It's just…I feel so…helpless." The word died on her lips, and turning away to hide her distress she pulled her hand out of his and walked around the bed to stare out of the window. It gave out onto an inner courtyard, a small sanctum of peace with benches and beds of rose bushes in geometric patterns, but the picture was blurry, distorted by the tears pooling in her eyes. Still, she held on to them, she had to, and they didn't spill. She heard the rustling of the mattress as slowly he got off the bed and then the scraping of metal on the floor as wheeling the IV pole he joined her side.

"I don't want to be this sick person," Grissom said, cutting into the laden silence, "not with you. I want to be me again. I want to do all the things I was able to do before. Visit all the places we said we would. You remember?" He reached out a hand and brushed an invisible strand of hair away from her face.

She turned toward him, her lips trembling as she forced a smile and nodded her head.

"It tears me apart that I can't be that man anymore."

"You will be that man again, Gil, because we will beat this thing. Okay?"

He swallowed, and grudgingly nodded his head. "Okay."

She tried a wider smile, but it wavered. "You can do better than that."

His lips twisted into a half-smile, and wrapping his right arm around her shoulders he squeezed her to him and pressed a kiss to her temple. "We'll beat this thing," he said, his lips on her skin.

They remained like so, gazing out of the window, for a very long time, until the loud gurgling of his stomach broke the peaceful quiet that had settled between them. They shared a smile, and then a chuckle, before Sara asked, "Are you hungry? I brought stuff to eat too." She moved away, motioned to the bag. "I know what hospital food's like.

"I'm fine." He glanced at the bed table pushed to the side, then reaching over picked up an individual pudding tub. He lifted it up at shoulder height with the label toward her as though advertising the product on television. "La compote de pommes et poires Andros," he said in a mock voiceover voice, "Très bon pour tous vos problèmes intestinaux."

"Baby food?" she queried with a playful arch of her brow.

He pulled a face at her teasing. "The fruit compotes are…easy to swallow and digest." His expression darkened briefly and he shrugged. "They tend to stay down too. It was them and some fromage frais for breakfast, or one of those protein drinks I can't stand."

Her lips twitched up into a smile. "No Jell-O?"

He gave a chuckle. "Nope. Not favoured by the French, it would seem. I asked, and was met with blank faces."

She grabbed the pudding out of his hand and picking up a spoon pulled the foil cover off.

His eyes widened in fear. "I'm not hungry," he said, pulling his face back.

"Well, I am." Grinning she brought the spoonful to her mouth, her face registering surprise as she tasted the puréed fruit. "It's actually very nice," she said, her mouth full.

"Help yourself," he said in good-humour, "I've had my share."

She scooped up some more, which she ate hungrily. She could feel his stare on her as she ate, and she paused mid-chew, meeting his concerned gaze.

"Sara, you got to eat," he said, his tone solemn.

Frowning, she lifted the tub and spoon up in the air. "I _am_ eating," she said.

His smile was sad. "You know what I mean." His eyes flicked down the length of her; she'd lost weight and visibly he had noticed.

"It's all the walking I'm doing," she tried, unsuccessfully. "I'm fine," she insisted when the concern didn't leave his gaze, "I eat enough. You worry about keeping _your_ weight up, big man." A smile broke over his face at the tease, and she winked at him. "So what do we do now?"

"We wait."

She pulled a face at the suggestion. "I got a better idea." She climbed up on the bed and bounced on it a couple of times, testing its solidity. Satisfied it would hold both their weights, she shuffled up so she sat with her back to the headboard on the edge of the bed and patted the spot next to her.

His eyes widening with fear at what she was suggesting, he glanced at the door, then back at her. "I'm not sure―"

"I want you to read to me," she said, giggling. "Would you do that?"

His face softened. "Sure. What did you have in mind?" He glanced around the room for some reading material, his eyes eventually settling on the emergency procedures notice on the back of the door. "What about this, huh?"

Laughing, she reached over to pick up his overnight bag and retrieved Jonas Jonasson's book while he walked round the bed and mindful of the IV in his arm clambered up next to her with a little difficulty. When he was settled, she passed him the book, then rummaged in the bag for his glasses case. He read the first few lines of the next chapter for himself before breaking into a quiet chuckle and starting over, out loud this time. Closing her eyes, Sara leaned her head on his shoulder and let his soft voice lull her into thinking that everything would be all right.

Grissom read a whole chapter before he excused himself to go to the bathroom. He slipped off his glasses, then carefully manoeuvred himself off the bed and dragging the IV pole made his way to the adjoining bathroom. Sara stared, her concern at his visible pain morphing to amusement as the edges of his hospital gown opened at the back.

Setting the book and his glasses onto the overbed table she got off the bed, pulling the sheet taught over it and plumping up his pillows, then took out from his overnight bag a clean pair of boxer shorts for him to wear for when he went to radiology. She picked up the empty tub of compote and foil cover and tossed them in the trash. Then she checked her watch. She'd been with him a little over an hour already, and she wondered why no one had been to fetch him yet.

"Gil, you okay?" she called through the door when after ten minutes he still hadn't come out.

She heard a muffled "Yeah," followed by the soft whoosh of the toilet flushing.

"Gil, what time is your appointment with Docteur Fournier?" she asked as a while later he came out.

He didn't reply. Looking distracted, he simply closed the door after him and ambled over to the bed. He'd splashed water over his face, droplets of which still hung from his light stubble. Before she could ask what was wrong there was a knock on the door and she turned toward it just as it opened. A middle-aged man stepped in. He had a moment's hesitation when he noticed her before he entered fully and quietly closed the door after him.

He was a full head shorter than she was, with short jet black hair that was greying at the temple and thinning on the top, exposing a receding hairline. He had kind eyes, a slightly crooked nose and a clean-shaven angular chin, and wore a pink shirt and matching tie, pleated beige chinos under a white lab coat. His black leather loafers were polished to a shine and the two tassels dangling on the front had Sara's brow arching.

In his left hand he held a couple of large white envelopes, which contains X-rays and such likes. He didn't wear a wedding ring. Despite his seemingly pleasant exterior there was a certain caution in his expression that set alarm bells ringing. His eyes fixed on Sara with surprise, then onto Grissom with a question in them.

"Docteur," Grissom said in French, "je vous présente ma femme, Sara. Sara, this is Docteur Fournier."

Sara gave an involuntary smile at the pride she detected in Grissom's voice as he made the introductions. The look the doctor gave Grissom told her he'd known about her but hadn't expected to meet her, ever. She took a couple of sideways steps to Grissom's side, and he slipped a reassuring, gently-possessive arm around her waist. Closing the distance to them, the doctor extended his hand, which Sara shook. "Nice to meet you," he said with a smile in faultless English.

"Likewise," she said, relieved at the man's bilingualism.

Docteur Fournier gave another pointed look at Grissom. "I have heard a lot about you, over the months."

Wishing that she could say the same, Sara glanced at Grissom out of the corner of her eye. He was staring at the doctor, worry openly displayed on his face. Her mouth dried up, her heartbeat quickening in trepidation of what was to come next.

The doctor's gaze settled on Grissom. He didn't beat about the bush. "I have come bearing bad news, I'm afraid."


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: All medical mistakes are mine and mine only. There will be many, and I apologize for them in advance. Any feedback on them would be appreciated so I can try to put them right. ;-)

* * *

"If wishes were horses

Beggars would ride:

If turnips were bayonets

I would wear one by my side."

-English proverb and nursery rhyme from the 16th century.

* * *

"You're going to keep me in longer, aren't you?" Grissom said, dejected.

The doctor slowly nodded his head. His eyes flicked over to Sara watching fearfully, then back to Grissom. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

Grissom darted a weary glance at Sara, then looked down, acknowledging the news with a nod.

"Good news is," the doctor went on with apparent cheeriness, "there's no radiotherapy today."

Drawing a long breath Grissom slumped down on the edge of the bed, his disappointment at having to stay in hospital palpable. Sara reached for his hand on his lap, and gave his fingers a supportive squeeze which he didn't return.

"Did…the radiation make him sick?" she asked, finding her voice at last.

The doctor lifted his shoulders, his hands opening out in front of him in a helpless gesture. "I don't think so," he said, looking at Sara, "but it wouldn't have helped." And then refocusing on his patient, "Monsieur Grissom, how have you been feeling this last week?"

Grissom looked up and shrugged. "The chemo made me very sick over the weekend," he said, "but apart from that, better." He turned toward Sara and gave her a small smile. "This week's been good."

"And your appetite?"

Sara's eyes flicked from one man to the other as she followed their dialogue. "Quite good," Grissom replied, "On the whole. I still get very tired in the evenings but again no more so than usual."

"You look like you're managing to keep the weight on, which is good." Grissom gave another nod, and the doctor's gaze narrowed as it veered off to a point in the middle distance, as if going through a mental checklist. Absently he rubbed at his cheek before refocusing. "Has there been any change to your…" he paused and sighed, his face pinching as he searched for a word that seemed just out of his reach.

"Yes." Grissom replied as if he'd been expecting the question, and Sara turned puzzled eyes toward him. "It's a little…bloody."

"What is?" she asked, alarm creeping into her voice at the mention of blood.

Giving her hand a squeeze Grissom looked over at her, his gaze pained at what he was about to confess. "My stool."

The breath caught in her throat at the shock of his news. Tears rose, prickling the back of her eyes, and she swallowed. What did it mean? Had the cancer spread? His hand tightened around her fingers, imparting much needed strength, and she understood that all this time he'd been thinking the same thing. No wonder he'd reacted the way he had the previous evening.

"Any change in the colour?" the doctor asked, and she shook her head to snap herself out of her torpor. "Black, greasy? Or unusually pale?"

Refocusing on him, Grissom shook his head in reply. That had to be good, right? Then Grissom went on to tell the doctor that he'd felt growing 'discomfort' in the past few days when going to the toilet, if he went at all, even though he was taking all the necessary medication. Sara could only stare, speechless. Why hadn't he told her about it?

After careful consideration of Grissom's words, Dr Fournier reached over past him to set the envelopes he was still holding onto the bed table before taking a medical pen light out of his pocket. He flicked it on, checked its beam, then moving right up to Grissom shone it into each of his eyes in turn. Sara watched the doctor's face intently, trying to gauge from minute changes in its expression how good, or bad, the news were.

"No signs of jaundice," Dr Fournier said, stepping back. "Not even very mild."

Grissom blew a deep breath, as if extremely relieved.

Sara's frown deepened. "Jaundice?"

"Yes," the doctor replied, glancing toward her. "Jaundice, even mild, would indicate blockage in the bile duct. So would pale stools, which altogether _could_ be an indication that the cancer is metastasising to the head of the pancreas, which in your husband's case, for the time being anyway, appears to be free of cancer."

_Would, could, appear_… Such caution and uncertainty. Sara wiped at her eyes. Couldn't he give her – give them – definite answers? "And the blood in his stool?" she asked, keeping her mounting frustration in check.

The doctor shrugged in typical French manner. Again, he groped for words before he answered. "Blood indicates problems in the digestive tract. Black, greasy stool could indicate an ulcer or cancer spreading high up in the tract. Any tenderness in the abdomen?" he asked Grissom.

"Some. I mean, I did feel unwell after lunch yesterday. Mild cramping, I guess." He rubbed at the lower part of his stomach, indicating where the pain had been localised. "The pain got better when I lay down."

Sara stared at Grissom with disbelief. He met her eyes briefly, sheepish and contrite.

"When you lay down you eased the pression on the blockage."

"Blockage?" Sara queried.

"He means bowel obstruction," Grissom explained.

"Is that what you think is wrong with him?" she asked with disbelief.

Dr Fournier's eyes flicked over to her and he nodded his head. "The position of your husband's cancer makes it so that it can press on the outside of the small intestine which can create a blockage and blood in the stool. The blood tests we ran yesterday came back normal for your husband, but we're going to do an X-Ray to be sure."

His glib reassurance did nothing to allay Sara's fears. What if he was wrong? What if the cancer had spread? Grissom had assured her that the chemoradiation had stalled its growth. But had it?

"Why have you stopped the chemo?" she asked, her tone sharper than she'd intended. "I thought that neo-adjuvant chemoradiation meant doing both chemo and radiotherapy simultaneously."

Dr Fournier's brow rose, showing surprise at Sara's question. His gaze shifted from Sara to Grissom and then back to her again. "Are you in the medical profession?" he asked uncertainly.

"No," Sara replied, glancing at Grissom. Was that the ghost of a smile on his lips? "I'm not. I'm a quick learner though, and I've been reading up about it."

The doctor gave her a nod. "You're right about the treatment. Your husband's finishing his third cycle. He's in what we call the rest period before we start the fourth." He turned toward Grissom clearly bewildered, probably at the fact that Grissom hadn't shared that knowledge with his wife, but before he could open his mouth to speak Sara asked another question.

"What drug are you using?"

Fournier cut his eyes at Sara. "I beg your pardon?"

"For the chemo. What drugs are you using?"

Again, the doctor looked over at Grissom, a question in his eyes.

"Sara, why do you want to know all this?" Grissom asked.

She turned toward him and sighed. "Because I need to know," she stated emphatically, and Grissom nodded his head in understanding.

"Your husband's agreed to take part in a clinical trial," Dr Fournier said, "and his treatment is custom-made. Normal chemo treatments don't have such a good success rate for pancreatic cancer, so we've got him on a regimen of gemcitabine which is given intravenously and capecitabine which is taken orally."

"They're the peach-coloured tablets I've been taking twice daily," Grissom provided.

Sara's wariness and hesitation must have shown on her face because the doctor reached over for the bigger of the two envelopes and slipped out two scans. "These are the most recent PET/CT fusion scans we have for your husband. They were done two weeks ago."

He crossed over to the opposite wall, slotted the scans side by side onto the light box and flicked the switch. Turning around Grissom reached for his glasses on the table, slipped them on, and then he and Sara moved forward, their eyes glued to the lit-up screen. The first scan showed a frontal view of Grissom's torso and the second a side view.

"Here is the stomach," the doctor explained, pointing at a larger organ in the middle of the first scan, "with the duodenum here, and the pancreas there, directly behind. This area here is your husband's tumour in the tail and body. You can see from this scan that there is no visual evidence of the cancer having metastasized to the surrounding area." He dropped his hand from the screen and made eye contact with Sara.

"But you can't be sure."

The doctor shook his head. "No," he said, holding her gaze steadily, "I cannot be sure one hundred percent. Not until we cut your husband open."

Grissom made no comment, and it was clear that he was familiar with the doctor's answers to her questions. Her attention returned to the PET scans as she thought the doctor's words over. There was some good news there somewhere, good news she desperately wanted to cling to, but at the moment failed to see. Grissom squeezed her shoulder in a comforting gesture and she turned her face toward him, trying a weak smile when their gazes met.

His eyes were soft with concern, and she knew he wasn't worrying about himself, but about her and how she was taking the news. She felt she'd managed to keep a professional lid on her emotion, on her doubts, but of course he knew her better. His eyes closed wearily all of a sudden, as though of their own accord, which made his concern for her all the more poignant. He took his glasses off and wearily rubbed at his eyes.

"Let's get you sat down," she said. Taking his elbow she steered him toward the bed and they resumed their spot side by side on the edge of the bed while the doctor turned off the light box and took down the scans. Think positive, she told herself, think positive. "Gil said the cancer was resectable," she said hopefully, watching him slide the scans back inside their protective envelope.

"Potentially resectable," Dr Fournier amended with a nod of assent.

"And you said that the cancer doesn't look to have spread."

Her comment garnered another nod. "That's right."

"So why wait to do the operation? Why not do it now while you've got the cancer contained?"

The doctor drew in a breath. "I would like to do one more cycle of chemoradiotherapy before we try to operate. The cancer doesn't appear to have metastasised, and it has reduced, but ideally we would like for it to…" He paused and turned to Grissom. "What's the word you like to use again?"

"Shrink."

"That's right. The tumour needs to _shrink_ a little more." Dr Fournier was looking increasingly flustered, his English worsening, his French accent a lot more pronounced now, as though the effort of explaining everything in English was getting to be too much. "A distal pancreatectomy together with removal of the spleen, which is what we would be looking at doing in the case of your husband, is a very tricky procedure, and it is my opinion that we should wait until the most optimum conditions."

Sara looked over at Grissom, willing him to interrupt, tell the doctor that it was time to do the operation, that without it his chances of recovery were slim. He didn't, and his silence weighed heavily between them. "So what do we do now?" she asked in a sigh.

"We wait," both men said at the same time.

Dr Fournier advised Grissom not to drink or eat anything until further notice, then left, assuring them that someone would be in shortly to take Grissom to X-Ray. Grissom eased himself fully onto the bed and leaned back against his pillow with his eyes closed for a moment while folding her knee under her Sara perched herself on the edge of the bed near him, silent and introspective as she took his hand and absently began stroking her fingers to it.

"That was quite a grilling you gave him," Grissom said after a moment, interlinking their fingers.

She looked up from his hand, meeting his gaze, a smile twitching on her lips. "Déformation professionelle?" she tried in her best French. Goes with the job?

Grissom scoffed in amusement before fixing her with a questioning stare. Her shoulder rose, showing remorse, when in truth she didn't feel sorry for the way she'd interrogated the doctor. What could she tell Grissom, though? How could she explain that she didn't think Fournier was proactive enough, aggressive enough in dealing with Grissom's cancer; that she would rather Grissom sought treatment back home where she'd feel more in control, where she had more confidence in the medical system simply because she understood it?

"I didn't mean to," she replied to his original question when the silence began to stretch between them and pulled her hand out of his to rub her face.

"What's happening now is just another setback," he said softly. "It's not the first, and believe me it won't be the last. Docteur Fournier _and_ his team are doing everything they can. You got to believe that. I understand your need for answers, Sara, but there is no miracle cure, no set treatment that works every time. Not with this type of cancer." He paused to let his words sink in and shrugged. "You don't have to be so sceptical of his methods, so distrustful of him."

Sara sighed. The time for the dreaded heart-to-heart had come. "It's not that I don't trust the guy or his team," she began, picking her words carefully. "I'm sure they're doing the best they can for you. In fact I have no doubt that they _are_ doing their best for you. But…is it _the_ best?" She paused and gave him a half-smile. "Is it the best for _you_?" Her voice was soft and tender when she next spoke. "Sounds to me like your cancer got caught in time and that all this time wasted waiting is time you could be recovering. Have you heard of the MD Anderson Cancer Centre in Texas?"

He frowned. "Sure."

"_They_ have the highest success rates for treating pancreatic cancer in the world. They have performed more resections than any other centre in the world." Grissom's face softened with understanding and he nodded his head at her. "They're on top of their game, Gil. Their surgeons come from all over – the best in their fields – and they are skilled, experienced. What if we wait and by the time they operate they find out that it's too late and the cancer's spread, huh?"

He reached out his hand, touching her on the cheek. "I trust Docteur Fournier's judgement. What you say may be true, but volume isn't everything. The stats in the States are no better than here. I've done my research too, Sara." His eyes narrowed suddenly, his lips pinching as he considered her at length. He wet his lips hesitantly before he spoke. "What is this about?" he asked almost fearfully. "It almost sounds like…" He faltered. "Have you changed your mind?"

"Changed my mind?" she repeated with puzzlement, "About what?"

His shoulder rose diffidently. "About staying here with me. I mean, if you have, if you'd rather―I understand you've got work obligations there, your mother―"

She lifted her hand to his mouth, cutting his words short, and slowly shook her head. "I haven't changed my mind," she said quietly, but confidently. "Work can do without me. My mother is fine. I'm here to stay, Gil. I'm not going home without you. I just…" she swallowed the lump forming in her throat and forced a trembling smile, "I want what's best for you, that's all."

"And I'm getting it."

He sounded so full of resolve, as he spoke the words, so full of confidence and damn stubbornness. What choice did she have but to trust his judgement, though? Slowly, almost grudgingly, she nodded her head at him, but at the back of her mind, she couldn't help wondering if this would be a decision _she_ would live to regret.


	20. Chapter 20

"What saves a man is to take a step. Then another step."

-C.S. Lewis.

* * *

_Home at last_, Sara thought as the taxi cab pulled up outside 25 rue des Bernardins. The thought, instinctive and totally unprompted, brought along a rush of happiness so intense that for a moment she could only stare blindly at the building in front of her. She'd felt like this once before, overwhelmed to the point of tears, happy tears, when Grissom had brought _her_ home from the hospital after Natalie.

_Home_, she thought again, surprised, pleased at the feelings it evoked. Until then she had never considered Paris her home, never truly felt at home there; it had been Grissom's home but not hers. Quickly, she brushed a knuckle under her right eye and took a deep breath. They were home. His stay at the hospital had scared her more than she'd realised.

In the end, Grissom had had to stay three days in hospital – three very long days and four even longer nights. Even now, he'd only been released on the proviso that Sara would keep a close eye on him, that he would take it easy and eat a very careful diet. Sara had spent as much time with him as possible but even so it had hardly been long enough. The evenings and nights had been the worst, but she'd coped a lot better than that first evening, which was now a distant memory.

After settling the fare Grissom placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and she turned toward him with a start. "You okay?" he asked softly.

Sara gave him a smile and a nod and then opening the rear door got out. The taxi driver was already waiting on the sidewalk, Grissom's overnighter in hand. Sara took the bag from him while keeping a watchful eye on her husband as carefully he extricated himself out of the car. Straightening out, he looked up and swept quick eyes over the building. His expression told her he felt the same as she did – happy to be home**. **

The sun shone high above their heads. Behind them, the taxi cab rumbled into life before swiftly pulling out into the traffic. Shouldering the bag on her right side, she draped her left arm around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. "It's good to have you back home," she said in a wistful sigh, squeezing him to her gently.

"Home?" he queried with a surprised lift of his brow as he looked over at her. Her smile widening she nodded her head at him almost shyly. He lifted his left hand to her face and leaning his head down pressed a kiss to her lips. "It's good to be home," he said, smiling as he pulled back. Their gazes remained locked, the smiles lingering on their lips until a moped sped past them, its straining engine cutting short their reverie.

They walked over to the big wooden doors and Sara let them into the lobby. The door closed behind them, plunging them into semi-darkness. Sara's eyes swept over the staircase as she wondered how on earth he was going to manage the four flights without exerting himself.

"'Faith'," Grissom said, "'is taking the first step even when you can't see the whole staircase'."

Sara gave a chuckle. How he'd managed to read her mind, she didn't know. "Let me guess. Thoreau?"

"Martin Luther King. Let's get Hank before we try to conquer Everest, shall we? I've missed him."

Sara's smile turned tender. "He's missed you too."

"I'll bet," Grissom said in a scoff of disbelief. "Kept my side of the bed warm in my absence, did he?"

Sara pinched her lips to stifle her smile. "Can I take the fifth?"

Laughing, Grissom moved over to the Louboutin's front door and rang the bell. Hank was as pleased to see his master as Grissom was to see him, a scene Sara and Madame Louboutin watched with matching fond smiles. The mood was light, carefree and happy; without words they'd reached an understanding, like a page finally being turned.

The climb to the fourth floor was a slow but steady one jollied along by Hank's joyful yelping and leaping around. They could do this, she thought as slightly breathless they reached the top and she let them in, they _would_ do it. Once in the apartment, Grissom made a bee-line for the bathroom while Sara fetched them some drinks. She changed Hank's water and filled his bowl with food, then found Grissom sitting on the couch in the lounge. She handed him the glass of water, which he accepted with a grateful smile. The bells of Saint-Nicolas' church chimed three times.

"I need to do a little work," he said, reaching forward to set the glass down on the coffee table, and indicated his iPad, "Not much. Just return a few emails and answer students' queries. There should be a few so close to the finals."

Sara's smile lingered on her lips as she nodded her head. "All right," she agreed. "But don't overdo it."

His gaze narrowed mischievously. "I promise not to move from the couch. How about that, Nurse Ratched?"

Mouth in a pout, she bent down and kissed him on the lips. They had definitely turned a corner. "Then I'll be at your beck and call." His brow shot up, and she winked. "Just ring the bell."

He frowned. "What bell?"

"My bell." Anita Ward's lyrics began playing in her head, but she stared at him, her expression deadpan. He wouldn't get the reference, and she wasn't about to explain it to him. She was backing away when she saw him do a double take and he fixed her with wide, surprised eyes. She grinned at him. Maybe he did get the reference after all.

When she next checked on him he'd nodded off. She watched him tenderly for a moment, then found a pen and paper and wrote a quick note, telling him she'd taken Hank for a walk. When she returned he was tapping away at the iPad. She took a shower, washing her hair and while it conditioned shaving places that needed shaving, then spent time rubbing cream on her body and styling her hair. It needed cutting, the roots needed doing. Should she make an appointment at the salon down the street, she wondered? The thought made her smile. And just because she was happy she did herself a pedicure, painting her toes a radiant blue.

An hour later she was in the kitchen cutting up vegetables to steam when strands of music drafted in from next door. Quiet classical guitar followed by the unmistakable voice of Roger Daltrey singing _Behind Blue Eyes_. The song played softly, but she could hear every word clearly, probably because she knew them by heart.

Feeling Grissom's eyes on her she turned toward the doorway and smiled. "You all done?" she asked.

He carried his empty water glass over to the table, placing it on his side. "Yep. I'm officially on vacation until September."

She gave him a nod of acknowledgement and turned to the pan of boiling water on the cooker. A small chicken breast was in the oven, baking. "Dinner will be ready in ten minutes."

"There's no rush."

Getting caught up in the lyrics of the song Sara didn't respond. Her movement automatic, she transferred the vegetables into the steamer before placing it over the pan of boiling water and putting a lid on. Then she turned her attention to the packet of fresh noodles. Grissom quietly moved about the room, opening drawers and cupboards, gathering what he needed to set the table.

"Why did you choose this song?" she asked, looking over her shoulder at him.

He paused from placing cutlery on the table and met her gaze dead on. His face was solemn. "Because it's one of your favourites. And because it holds happy memories." His eyes averted briefly, then returned to her face. "Sara, I'm sorry – sorry for the way I treated you at the hospital the other day and also in the past."

He gave her a shy smile while choked up by his words she stared at him with tears in her eyes. Boiling water began to spill over the edge of the pan, sizzling as it hit the stove, and Grissom rushed to it, quickly taking the pan off the heat. Refocusing sharply, Sara lifted the lid off the steamer and emptied out the packet of noodles over the vegetables while, after turning the heat right down, Grissom replaced the pan on the hob.

His eyes caught and held hers, and she gave him a sheepish smile. "I'm also grateful," he said in a quiet voice, "grateful that you came back the next day." He gave a mirthless chuckle. "I thought you might have packed up and gone home. Home in Vegas, I mean."

"You won't get rid of me that easily," she said with conviction.

He looked deep into her eyes and nodded his head. His hand lifted to her face, cupping her cheek and he leaned forward for a gentle kiss on the mouth. "Thank you."

The smell of slightly overdone chicken tickled Sara's nostrils. "Damn," she said, giggling as she bent down to open the oven door, "My perfect meal isn't going to be so perfect after all." Quickly she turned the oven off, grabbed an oven mitt and took the chicken out.

Laughing, Grissom returned to the table and finished setting it. Then he went through his ritual with the pills. She was serving up the food when he asked, "What's this?"

Spoon in one hand and pan in the other, Sara glanced round at him. He was crouching down in front of the open drinks cupboard, Madame Louboutin's box of chamomile teabags in hand. She felt a jolt of panic in her stomach. "Madame Louboutin gave it to me," she said, aiming for a casual tone. "To help me sleep."

He pursed his face in interest. "Is it working?"

"Yeah, it is," she replied, the disbelief in her voice undisguised.

Interest making way to surprise, he put the box back in the cupboard and continued rummaging.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

He pulled his head out from inside the cupboard. "I'm sure I had a bottle of red in here somewhere," he said, his expression puzzled, "A Christmas gift from René. You remember René, don't you?"

Sara smiled. She remembered René indeed; Grissom's colleague had made a lasting impression on her. "Guy with the moustache?" she asked, barely supressing a gleeful expression.

Grissom chuckled. "Yeah, the guy with the moustache."

And the bow-tie and waistcoat and ponytail. Who said the French had style? "Forensic anthropology, right?" She picked up the two steaming plates and took them to the table.

"That's him. Well, he gave me this bottle of Cabernet-Sauvignon and it's not there. I'm sure that's where I put it." He made a slight pout. "I was saving it for you."

Sara's smile faded. She looked up, stared at the white wall tiles in front of her for a moment and sighed. "I may have drunk it," she said, and looked over directly at him.

He stared at her at length, his eyes involuntarily flicking down to the healing cut in her left hand, and she knew he'd put two and two together. Her mouth went dry. She swallowed the growing constriction in her throat. What would she tell him? How could she explain? She wanted him to think she was coping, not think her weak and helpless, hapless even. She had been down that road before, and should have known better.

Before she could find the words to explain he fixed her with a most disarming smile, instantly diffusing her fear and awkwardness. "Grape juice for two, then," he simply said, straightening up to his full height with a wince. His eyes told her he didn't need an explanation, that he understood and that he didn't think any less of her. That he trusted and loved her. All that, behind blue eyes.

Dinner, as per their custom, was eaten slowly and mainly in silence, Grissom's eating, sporadically interrupted by pill taking. He'd explained to her once that one pill treated a particular problem, but produced a side effect that another one then addressed. That drug, in turn, produced another side effect that another one targeted. And so the chemical cocktail was devised. Lots and lots of pretty coloured little capsules that were supposed to make him feel better. It made her feel bad.

"Sara," he said, pushing his plate away from him when he'd finished, and she looked up, "There was a message from Francine on my cell."

"How is she?"

He paused, as if pondering his reply, and smiled. "She mentioned that the sea air is doing her good. Anyway, she called to say that she's going to prolong her stay and…she asked if we'd like to come and visit for a few days."

Sara stared at him with disbelief. Was he serious? He'd only just been discharged from hospital. Immediately she thought of all the things that could go wrong. The journey itself was bound to take its toll on him and she didn't like the thought of being so far away from Paris and the hospital.

"Oh, I don't know," she said, wary of dampening his good spirit with a downright refusal.

"Le Touquet's not that far," he said, reading her mind, "And there are doctors there too. Of course, I'd have to clear it with Dr Fournier, but as long as it doesn't interfere with my treatment I'm sure he'd have no objections."

Sara gave him a dubious face and brought another forkful of rice noodles to her mouth. "He said to take it easy."

"Exactly," Grissom agreed, as if she'd just proved his point. Completely undeterred by her lack of enthusiasm he went on brightly. "So, I was thinking that we could go next week."

"Next week?" she choked out, noodles getting stuck halfway down her throat.

He gave her a definite nod. "We could take the train."

Quickly she finished swallowing and picked up her glass. "The train?" she exclaimed, taking a quick sip of juice to ease the food down.

Another definite nod and she realised that this wasn't some harebrained scheme, that he'd thought about it seriously. "We could take the 8.45 train Monday morning, come back on the 16.15 Wednesday afternoon in time for chemo and radiation on Thursday."

"I'm beginning to wonder if this is Francine's idea, or yours," she said. "You seem to have it all thought out already."

An enigmatic smile to his lips he tapped the side of his nose. "So, what do you say?" he asked, giddy with excitement.

"What about Hank?"

Hank's head lifted off his front paws, his ears pricking up at the mention of his name. Grissom flicked his gaze over to him and winked, as if telling him, "Don't worry, buddy. I've got your back." "He's coming with us."

"Gil―" she said, mildly chastising, "They won't have him in the hotel, or on the train for that matter."

"This is France, Sara. Les chiens sont rois." Dogs are kings.

"Hank's hardly a Bichon Frisé."

Grissom's only reply was to narrow playful eyes at her. Hank made a little yelping sound. Grissom's shoulder lifted, showing a united front with the pooch. "So?"

"Do I have a choice in the matter?" she asked, laughing.

Knowing she'd relented, he grinned at her. "You can pick the hotel, how about that?"

"And how do you suppose I find us a room at this time of year and at such short notice?"

"I trust in your investigative powers."

His enthusiasm was contagious. "I guess I could ask Greg to forward my bathing suit along with the rest of my stuff."

Grissom's expression darkened suddenly, and she wished she hadn't mentioned Greg. "What have you told him?" he asked, looking pensive.

She finished her plate before she replied. "I haven't told him anything. Email is great in that way. But I don't want to have to lie to him, Gil, to any of them. They're my friends - our friends. They've been there for me and…" She paused as it occurred to her. "Are you ashamed?" she asked.

"Ashamed?" he repeated, his brow creasing with bafflement.

She nodded. "Is that why you don't want anyone to know? Because, you know, there's nothing to be ashamed of. It isn't a weakness to be sick. It's not like you could have seen this cancer coming, or prevented it."

"I know," he said in a sigh, and pondered her words. "I don't know, I mean… Part of it is not wanting people to know my business, but I guess part of it is pride. I've always been the boss, the one they all looked up to."

"They still do, and your…condition wouldn't change that."

"I know." He shrugged. "I guess, I'm just not ready for them to know yet. I―" He paused and sighed and scratched at the stubble on his chin.

"I won't tell them," she said, "Not until you're ready for me to. For now, I'll tell Greg that I've decided to spend some much needed quality time with my husband, and that you're taking me on a trip to the coast. Which is the truth."

Grissom stared at her musingly. "I wish it was just like that. Hey!" he exclaimed suddenly, his eyes widening in delight. Then they seemed to lose their focus, as he got caught up in thoughts. "Maybe we could rent a classic open-top car and take to the road. Wind in your hair―"

She waved her hand in front of his face and he refocused suddenly. "No open-top car," she said, a wide smile lighting her face as she realised she was already looking forward to their little escapade. "But I'll make some calls." His brow rose, and she laughed. "All right. Maybe 'calls' is a little optimistic. I'll research online with the help of my trusted friend, Google translate."

Grissom scoffed and shook his head in a despairing manner, but the grin on his face said a lot about his present state of mind. His eyes flicked to a point beyond her, searching, before they settled on her again.

"So, what's for dessert?"


	21. Chapter 21

"Whether it's the best of times or the worst of times, it's the only time we've got."

-Art Buchwald, American humourist and columnist for the Washington Post.

* * *

"Le train entrera en gare d'Etaples-Le-Touquet dans deux minutes. Etaples, deux minutes d'arrêt."

Sara startled out of her trance at the announcement and prising her eyes away from the passing scenery automatically checked her watch. Slipping his glasses off, Grissom looked up from his crossword puzzle at her. "That's us," he said, folding the glasses into the breast pocket of his shirt.

Sara straightened up in her seat, then stretched out her shoulders and gave him a nod. The ride on the TGV was the smoothest train ride she'd ever been on, smoother even than a plane ride. They seemed to glide out of Paris-Nord and its suburbs and then through the flat countryside of the départements du Nord, arriving at Etaples station dead on time.

When purchasing their tickets Sara had been able to reserve seats on opposite sides of a table, affording the three of them a little extra space and comfort in the busy, but not packed, carriage. Grissom gathered their belongings scattered on the table then made to stand up. Before he could do so fully Sara reached across for his hand, keeping him in place. "I'm getting the bags," she said with authority, holding his gaze meaningfully. "You look after Hank."

Knowing it was futile to argue, Grissom simply smiled at her. The train began to slow down as it neared the station, its brakes gently scraping against the wheels. Slightly unsteady on her feet as she got up, Sara reached up on the overhead shelf for the carryon case which she carefully lowered onto the table between them. Hank stood up, moving from beneath the table into the aisle and shook himself briskly. His tail beat wildly. His gaze fixed on Grissom, then on Sara, unsure of the proceedings, worried he might be left behind.

They had a soft muzzle for him, but since nobody seemed to mind and Hank wasn't prone to barking they'd taken it off. Grissom clipped the lead on his collar, then picked up his empty water bowl which he wrapped in a plastic bag and tidied everything away in the side pocket of the carryon. Despite the train being air conditioned Grissom's shirt clung to his back and a sheen of perspiration covered his brow.

Sara stepped out into the aisle and went to retrieve their suitcase from the luggage rack at the end of the carriage near the exit. At a glance she noticed that few people were getting off with them, which would make disembarking a lot easier. Grissom soon joined her at the door, Hank pulling at the short leash, eager to get off.

The train was rolling into the station when it suddenly jerked and Sara lost her balance. Grissom's hand immediately shot out to her arm, steadying her. Their gazes met, their smiles complicit. His hand remained on her arm a tad longer than strictly necessary.

People waited on the platform, necks craned, keen eyes searching for loved ones and friends through the train's windows. The doors whooshed as they slid open, allowing stifling heat to enter the cab. Some people began to wave, wide smiles lighting their faces, others remained searching, worried scowls creasing their brows. The hands on the old SNCF clock showed 10.36.

Grissom got off first, Hank in tow, then quickly assisted Sara with the luggage before holding his hand out and helping her down onto the platform. Outside the station the sun shone brightly, but a refreshing breeze blew, cooling their faces and blowing Sara's hair about her face.

Grissom took a breath, pulled the shirt off his sweaty back. Ahead stood the station's small parking lot, a shuttle bus parked on the left of it, the sign in the windshield indicating that it was headed to Le Touquet. A few people were already queuing at the curb. There was no sign of the driver, but it didn't matter as Sara had other plans.

There was little traffic and Grissom unclipped Hank who swiftly went off to explore, needing to relieve himself. Sara watched his progress with a smile, automatically checking her back pocket for a doggy bag. Next to her, Grissom took another big breath through his nose and released it slowly. "Can you smell it?" he said in a hoarse whisper.

She turned toward him with a frown. His eyes were closed behind his sunglasses. He had a soft, wistful smile on his face. Lifting her nose, she took a small whiff of the air around her. All she could smell was hot sweaty tar, car fumes, and the dry smell of a distant bush fire. "What am I supposed to be smelling for?" she asked with growing confusion.

"The sea," he said, turning his head toward her. The corners of her mouth curved upward indulgently. "Feels good to be out and about, doesn't it?" He reached for her hand and squeezed it vehemently.

Sara gave him a quiet nod. It did feet good to be out of Paris. She'd felt the weight lift off her shoulders as soon as the train had left the platform for pastures new. She'd felt lighter, freer, as if their worries and troubles had stayed behind, waiting for their return.

And she wished it was true. Please, let them have a few days without fear and illness. A momentary reprieve when they could forget, just be the two of them without the cancer overshadowing every thought, every word and gesture toward each other.

"Thank you for humouring me," he said quietly, drawing her out of her musings.

A grin broke across her face. Humouring him? He was in for a surprise, she thought slyly. "Our taxi's over there," she said, jerking her head toward the lone taxi waiting on their right.

"Pre-booked?" he asked with surprise.

"Pre-booked."

He turned toward her. "I'm impressed." He sounded it.

Her heart filled with pride. She beamed at him. "I aim to please."

"They spoke English," he said, deadpan.

"They did _not_," she exclaimed, feigning affront as she elbowed him lightly in the ribs, and they laughed.

Hank returned, putting an end to their bantering, and they stepped off the curb, crossing over to the taxi. Sara introduced herself to the driver in faultless French before giving him the address of their hotel. Their luggage stowed away in the trunk, they climbed into the backseat, Hank taking pride of place between them. The taxi drove off, taking a left out of the station following road signs to Le Touquet.

Le Touquet was located three kilometres away on the other side of the Canche River and after buckling up Sara leaned back against the seat. She couldn't wait to get there, just to see the look on Grissom's face. Just at that moment he looked over at her and smiled. He was holding Hank's collar with a firm hand, keeping him well-anchored on the seat. Less than fifteen minutes later they were pulling up outside the hotel.

"Jesus, Sara," Grissom said under his breath, his head whipping round in astonishment. A satisfied smile formed on her lips at his reaction. Even she was impressed, reality for once matching the bright pictures she'd seen online. His head turned back to the modern, glass-fronted four-star spa hotel. "A room in this place must have cost a ton of money."

"It's a little above our usual budget―"

"And then some," he interrupted in a scoff.

"―but in the time constraint I didn't have much choice."

Truth be told, once she'd started looking the possibilities had been endless but not cheap as Le Touquet was the type of resort that catered to a traditionally wealthy clientele. A two-night stay at the _Centre de thalassothérapie du Touquet_ did indeed cost a lot of money, but Sara figured it was worth it. She had the money, had worked hard for it. What was the point of working and working and working all the hours God sent, if she couldn't splash out when it truly mattered?

Money couldn't buy them health or happiness, but it could pay for a good time, comfort and top-end facilities – saltwater spa, hot stone treatments, reflexology and massage therapy. She'd read about the health benefits of massages for cancer patients, how it enhanced their wellbeing.

The little voice in the back of her mind was right; this might be their last time at being happy and they needed to make every moment count while they still could. Make some new memories together, some they would cherish when the going got tough. And it would.

Her shoulder lifted, as if it was no big deal. "Call it an early birthday present."

Refocusing suddenly on her, he gave a nod. His expression was pained and she knew he remembered the similar plans they'd made for her birthday back in February. "Thank you," he said, choked up.

She gave a brisk nod, his emotion inevitably triggering her own. The driver turned in his seat, and unbuckling her seatbelt she leaned forward to pay the fare and instructed the driver to keep the change. Silently they got out of the car. Hank jumped off, immediately wandering off toward some shrubbery. Idly, Sara wondered whether she should stop him from watering the plants. The driver hauled their cases out of the trunk and wordlessly carried them inside.

Grissom lingered outside, turning his back to the hotel, his gaze sweeping left then right over the horizon. The view was magnificent. The hotel looked out onto a long, white sandy beach equipped with sun beds and parasols. The North Sea stretched beyond as far as the eye could see toward the shores of England, the rhythmic sound of its crashing waves just about audible from their vantage point. A few wispy white clouds hung in the otherwise brilliant blue sky. The temperatures were in the mid-twenties, hot for this part of France, but bearable compared to the dry Nevada heat she was accustomed to.

"Fancy taking a dip?" she asked, joining his side.

He looked over at her and draped his arm around her shoulders. "I didn't pack my shorts."

Her smile broadened. "I did."

He looked over his shoulder. "What about Hank?"

"You were right. Dogs are welcomed in the hotel, provided they are on a leash in communal area. They even have a doggy park at the back―dog sitter facilities. Dogs are indeed treated like kings in France."

"That's because they did away with their royal family," he deadpanned, making a cutting motion across his throat.

She laughed. "And we're allowed guests. We can get them a day's pass and they're able to enjoy all the facilities – just like a full paying guest. So I thought…" Her smile faded as her shoulder lifted, suddenly unsure of her plans.

"That we could ask Francine to join us," he finished for her. She nodded her head and he leaned in for a kiss. "I love you so much," he said, taking a fraught breath. A lump formed in her throat and all she could manage was another, wordless nod. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. "Come on," he said, "Let's check in. I need the bathroom, and unlike Hank I can't just go behind a bush."

The room was everything Sara had hoped for, except for the view which gave onto the town rather than on the sea front. But it was bright and airy, decorated in soft relaxing tones, with a large bed that took up most of the space. Directly in front of the window stood a low table and two low armchairs and Sara could already imagine the two of them sharing an intimate breakfast there.

Quickly she unpacked their clothes, filling hangers and drawers, before swapping her pants and blouse for a strappy sun dress. She applied sunblock on her skin, then moved to the bathroom to run a quick brush through her hair. The hairdresser had done a good job, she thought again. Grissom stood shirtless at the sink, splashing water on his face.

"Are you tired?" she asked, watching him through the mirror. "Do you want to rest a little before we go out to eat?"

He looked over at her and smiled. "I'm fine, actually," he replied. "I wouldn't mind stretching my legs a little, do a little exploring."

He paused and stared at her, a wistful expression clouding his eyes. She reached up to him and brushed her hand to the rough stubble on his cheek. He was growing his beard again, at her insistence.

"Don't say anything," she bid quietly. "I've as much to be thankful for as you have." He leaned his face into her hand and nodded his head before meeting her lips for a kiss.

Hand in hand and Hank in toe, they headed out of the hotel, taking the first turn on the right toward the town centre. The traffic was light, but the streets were busy with pedestrians; couples and families strolling about, like them discovering the town, and older local women hurrying back home with bulging bags of fresh produce.

Hoof beats sounded suddenly, echoing distantly at first and then more closely until a horse-drawn carriage carrying tourists came around the bend toward them. Hank tensed, then began growling and straining on the lead. Sara reeled him back while Grissom stopped, his eyes following the progress of the horses as they walked past. His grip on her hand slackened as his expression became distant and melancholy.

"Would you like to go for a ride?" Sara asked brightly.

Refocusing on her he smiled, then resumed walking. "It would be nice, wouldn't it?" he said. "But I can't. The rocking would cause havoc inside."

Averting her eyes, Sara nodded her head. Of course, she thought, chastising herself for her faux-pas. What was she thinking? Their wander soon took them to the famous indoor market, half-moon shaped and teeming with people. They bought postcards and souvenirs – a bag of _Berlingots de Berck_ for the Louboutins, a local specialty hard candies; a brown leather bracelet with an intricate weave for Greg and a bright _Le Touquet Paris-Plage_ T-shirt for her mother. Grissom shook his head when she suggested getting a matching one for his mother.

Lunch was light and eaten at the terrace of a small brasserie nearby. They bought ice cream cones that they ate on the way back to the hotel. Sara went for a swim in the outdoor pool while Grissom lounged in the shade on one of the sun beds, reading his book, Hank lazily stretched out on the grass by his side. Every few minutes she would glance in his direction and smile when invariably he would look up from Allan Karlsson's adventures and wave at her.

He looked content and relaxed, and pain- and worry-free. There were other patrons about, but they were few and she couldn't help noticing that she was by far the youngest person there. Maybe this had something to do with the fact that pets were welcomed while children weren't. The cancer was there, ever-present in their life, but it didn't dominate it any more. Ever since he'd come out of hospital a week ago to the day they'd grown close again, like they used to be. Gone was the awkwardness and guardedness of the first few days.

When she'd had enough, Sara climbed the steps out of the pool, dripping water all the way to her sun bed. There she wrapped herself in the towel and dried her face and chest. Tail wagging, Hank stood up to greet her. Sliding his glasses off, Grissom put his book down.

"You should go in," she told him with a bright smile, "The water's lovely. And very clean."

"Later maybe," he said, non-committal.

She knew a brushoff when she heard one. Laughing, she laid the towel on the lounger, stretched out over the top of it and closed her eyes. When was the last time she had done that, she wondered?

Their day at the spa was booked for the next day, and she couldn't wait. Francine was supposed to meet them at the hotel for breakfast. She had sounded frail and tired on the phone when Sara had called earlier, and Sara hoped she wouldn't cry off at the last minute.

A day a the spa would hopefully lift her spirits, if nothing else. Sara began to relax as her thoughts wandered. She must have fallen asleep because when she next woke Grissom was crouching by her side, softly calling her name. His hand was on her shoulder, his touch gentle and familiar.

"I'm going in," he said when she opened her eyes.

She nodded her head at him, swung her legs over the edge of her lounger. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he said firmly. "I just want to grab a shower, cool down a little." Pausing, he stood up with a wince, dragged his sunbed closer to hers and sat down on the edge of it. "I was thinking…maybe we could take a walk out to the beach after dinner. It wouldn't be so hot then and…the sun would be setting…" His shoulder lifted as his voice trailed off uncertainly.

Sara smiled at his awkwardness. He was trying to be romantic. "I'd like that very much."

They did have their romantic walk along the beach, Hank running and leaping and circling around their legs. The tide was in, the water cool as it lapped at their bare feet and covered the parallel tracks their footprints moulded in the wet sand. Nothing could wipe the wide smile off her face.

Later, when she woke in the still of the night, she found Grissom propped up on an elbow watching her in the moonlight. His fingers caressed her hair. His face was solemn, but his eyes were full of desire and promise. All was quiet around them, but for Hank's soft snoring coming from the basket at the foot of the bed. The night was warm, the window open to the gentle sea breeze billowing the muslin curtains. They'd done away with the covers, except for the linen sheet loosely draped over their lower halves.

Sitting up, Sara slowly turned toward him and wordlessly lowered one négligé strap over her shoulder and down her arm, and then the other, exposing her breasts. Her nipples hardened immediately. His eyes slid to her chest, then back up to her face, and he swallowed. Tentative fingertips moved to the hollow in her throat, down to her sternum, along the curve of one breast and up around again to the other breast.

Her eyes closed. She took in a breath, held it, and lay back down. The mattress dipped as he brushed his lips over hers, over her chin, travelling down the path his fingers had just taken. Her back arched up, welcoming, seeking more of his gentle touch. Her body writhed, her legs opened. His hand lifted off her, moved to her face, pushed hair away from her eyes and then withdrew. All she heard were ragged breaths through parted lips, two hearts beating as one. Her eyes reopened, meeting his darkened ones.

Her hand moved to his chest, threaded through the grey hairs there, skimming over his heart to the ink markings on his stomach before sliding underneath the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. The breath caught in his throat at the touch and he closed his eyes. He felt big in her hand.

They made slow, careful love that night, each one of his strokes and kisses, each thrust, groan and moan fervently reciprocated. It felt just like their first time all over again, but better, their unhurried, gentle and deliberate discovery of each other made more symbolic by the circumstances.

Grissom fell asleep first, the crumpled bed sheet barely covering his sweaty body. Sara's head lay in the crook of his shoulder, her leg lightly draped over his, her hand on his heart. Her eyes were closed, her tears flowing, quietly, slowly, unbidden, as listening to his strong and steady heartbeat she prayed. Prayed for his life, prayed for more time with the man she loved above everything else.

They would beat this damn cancer. They had to, the alternative would simply destroy her.


	22. Chapter 22

"They were renewed by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the other."

-Fyodor Dostoyevsky, _Crime and Punishment_.

* * *

Sara woke to a darkened room and an empty bed, and the sound of the shower running. Bright sunlight shone through the curtain. Closing her eyes, she thought back to the previous day's events, the previous night's. A hand slid up to her breasts, down her stomach, between her legs. A soft smile played on her lips as the recollections flooded her. She gave a deep, contented sigh and stretched out languidly in the bed. She felt like the proverbial cat that had got the cream, and she had.

In the bathroom Grissom was talking – singing maybe, she wondered with a frown? – his voice a low humdrum over the noise of the water. Smiling, she got out of bed and padded naked to the bathroom. She never noticed that Hank wasn't in his basket. The bathroom door was closed, but unlocked, and stealth-like she went in. Grissom had his back to her and was soaping himself. His humming intensified. Quickly and without his noticing she availed herself of the facilities, and then opened the shower Plexiglas door.

A look of surprise registered on his face, immediately replaced by a wide, pleasurable smile. He finished rinsing himself, then stood back against the tile wall while closing the door behind her Sara stepped right in under the warm spray. Water pounded her head, running into her eyes. Grissom cocked a surprised brow, his smile broadening at her intention. Without prompting he picked up the bottle of shampoo, poured a dollop into his cupped hand and instructing her to turn so she had her back to him turned the water off.

Anticipation made Sara giddy. She closed her eyes, waiting for his strong hands to work their magic. He'd start with her head of course, but she knew that before long his hands would wander down to her neck and shoulders reaching over to her breasts and then to the rest of her body. He had barely started working the shampoo through her hair, slowly, gently lathering it up, when the phone rang. Feeling his hands first tense then still on her scalp, Sara looked over her shoulder at him. He was looking torn and conflicted, and she knew he was debating with himself the wisdom of cutting their enjoyment short in favour of answering the phone.

"We should get it," she said, "It could be Francine."

Grissom made a face, but nodded his head nevertheless. "Partie remise?" he asked with a hopeful lift of his brow and a twitch of his lips. Save it for later?

Her face softened with a smile. "I look forward to it."

He leaned forward to kiss her on the lips. "You finish here. I'll go."

He let his eyes slowly trail from her face to her chest before grudgingly pulling himself away and opening the door. Pensive, Sara watched him go then turned the water back on and finished showering. It was only then that she wondered where Hank was. When she stepped out of the shower Grissom was still talking on the phone. She was towelling herself dry when he popped his head round the door. He'd slipped on one of the hotel's plush towelling robes.

"Francine's running late," he said. "She's not coming for breakfast, said she'd call again when she got here, so…I ordered room service pour deux." Raising both eyebrows, he waved his index and middle fingers in the air, making the number two.

A brow arched. A grin broke over her face. Now who was blowing their budget, she thought as she grabbed a matching robe to his and slipped it on. "I hope you ordered enough. I'm starving." Turning to the mirror, she picked up her hairbrush and ran it through the tangles in her hair. "What have you done with Hank?" she asked, catching his eye in the mirror.

"I'm making full use of the hotel facilities," he said, and shrugged. "I dropped him off at daycare."

"Daycare?" she queried in a giggle, turning her focus back to her reflection.

Grissom didn't answer. He simply watched her for a moment with a fond, faraway look on his face before suddenly vanishing. When she joined him in the bedroom he was sitting forward at the low table by the window studying the postcards they'd purchased at the market the previous day. She dropped down into the armchair across from him, a smile twitching as she watched him. He'd only loosely tightened his robe at the waist, leaving it to gape open in all the right places.

"I thought we could do three each before breakfast arrives," he said enthusiastically, completely oblivious.

Slowly prising her gaze away, Sara reached forward and picked up a postcard – a heavily-filtered mock-up of Le Touquet and its surrounding area against a vibrant North Sea sunset – perfect for her mother, or his.

"Do you think that if I write, _The Dominion, Summerlin, Las Vegas, Nevada_, _USA_, it'll get there?"

She glanced up at him with a smirk on her face. He was looking at her over the top of his glasses, a wicked grin to his lips, and she laughed. "What did you write?" she asked, trying to read upside down, but his hand covered the message side of the card.

"Nothing yet," he said, raising his hand so she could see, and sighed.

It suddenly occurred to her that he might find it easier to confide his illness – or at least that something was wrong – to Heather than he would to the team or his mother. This could be the first step, she thought, the nudge he needed to open up to everyone else.

"Do you want to tell her?" she asked, looking up.

He didn't need elaborating. "No," he replied with a definite shake of the head and held her gaze. She could tell he'd thought about it. His expression softened. "So, I was thinking something along the lines of…'Having a great time en France? Weather's hot, company too? Wish you were here?'"

Sara's grin was wide. "Drop the 'Wish you were here', and it's perfect."

Grissom winked, then putting pen to card wrote the message sans _Wish you were here_ and signed it. He was reaching for another card when he paused. "Do you want to sign it?" he asked, glancing up.

Sara pursed her face, then nodded her head and took the card from him. She thought briefly before lifting her pen and writing _You were right _and_ Merci _under his message. She flicked her gaze up at Grissom and smiled, then signed her name next to his. "Well, she was," she said a little defensively, referring to the brief message she'd written Heather, "And I'm grateful."

Grissom reached for her hand, squeezed it and then picked up another postcard. She watched as in the right-hand side he wrote Captain Jim Brass and his PD address, and then the same message he'd written to Heather. Without looking up he passed her the card to sign.

"Is that all your good friend is getting?" she asked.

Mouth pursing, Grissom took the card back and studied it. Then he lowered his pen to it, adding, _Get yourself that boat. _

"Do I want to know?" she asked with a frown when he held to the card back to her. Without waiting for a reply she added _Bisous_ and then signed her name.

"Bisous?" Grissom queried.

Sara's head snapped up. "What, you don't think it appropriate?"

Grissom's shoulder lifted in a grudging shrug. He was looking put out.

"Are you jealous?" she asked, a wide smile spreading over her features.

"No," he replied, sulky.

An indulgent smile twitching the corners of her mouth Sara sat forward, and leaning across the low table between them gently tugged at the lapels of his robe until he had no choice but to meet her in the middle for a kiss. He shifted forward in the seat, his lips parting for a gentle kiss that lingered tantalisingly.

"That's not the kind of kiss I had in mind," she said, in a breathless purr, when they pulled back from each other.

"I should hope not," he scoffed, and burst out in a quiet chuckle. He set Brass's postcard over Heather's and reached for a third one while Sara picked one to write to the lab. "This one's going to be more problematic," he said in a sigh.

She looked up. "Your mother?"

He gave her a nod. His eyes flickered away and when they moved back to her face they were sad, pained and resigned. She realised he'd made up his mind to tell Betty about the cancer. "There isn't much space on a postcard for what I have to say," he pondered in a sigh, validating her thoughts.

It was her turn to reach for his hand. It would be tough, but telling his mother was the right thing to do, and she'd be there with him every step of the way. "Why don't we…" she paused and shrugged, "pay for her to come? Come to Paris, I mean." His gaze averted uncertainly. "She has flown before, hasn't she?"

"Yeah, she has, but never this far or on her own."

"She wouldn't have to travel alone. Maybe she could come with a hearing friend, or an interpreter, I don't know."

"And where would she stay?"

Sara watched Grissom carefully. She wanted to tell him that none of that was important, that all that mattered was that he told her before it was too late, but wary of spoiling their good mood she didn't. He returned his attention to the card and after briefly pondering his message put his pen down, writing for the third time in a row the same message. Sara couldn't help the smile that formed on her lips as silently she began composing her own message to the team. _Having a great time. The weather's hot―_

"That's me done," he announced brightly, tossing his glasses onto the table as he sat back in his seat. "My three to your…one?" When she looked up he was shaking his head at her, a teacher disparaging of his student. His eyes narrowed suddenly and he sat forward. Peering intently at what she'd written he began to laugh. "We're two of a kind, aren't we?"

Suddenly too choked up for words, Sara gave him a small smile and nodded her head.

His laughter petered out. "You're right," he said, letting out a long breath. "I've put it off long enough. When we get back I'll talk to her and make arrangements for her to come over."

Sara reached out her hand to him and he took it. They were staring at each other when a gentle knock on the door followed by a bright "Petit-déjeuner" brought them back.

Francine arrived at ten-thirty, and Grissom and Sara went to meet her downstairs. Francine's greetings were effusive and very French, clearly exaggerated, and Sara knew they were a front meant to concede her ailing health. If at all possible Francine looked smaller and frailer that she had the last time they had seen her two weeks previously. She wore a floaty, flowery blouse over white pants, her over-sized sunglasses and trusted fuchsia scarf under a wide-brimmed white hat, and a wide smile Sara tried her best to reciprocate. She felt overwhelmed with emotion at the encounter, suddenly lost for words and close to tears.

A dip in the saltwater pool and an hour of personalised treatment later the trio sat down for a bite to eat at the hotel patio. Francine hardly touched her food while Grissom only picked at his, his concern over his friend's health clearly visible. As though by tacit agreement the word cancer was never uttered, but it was never far away. At first the conversation was strangely one-sided, Francine regaling them with tales of childhood and teen antics while Sara and Grissom listened with wavering smiles.

"I don't think I ever told anyone this," Grissom said, his voice lowered, his tone jovial, "Not even Sara, but when I was seven..."

And with that it all changed. Grissom surprised Sara, recalling a couple of seemingly long-forgotten anecdotes of his growing-up in Marina-del-Rey in the sixties and seventies, titbits of a distant and happy past Sara had not been privy to before. Francine laughed, and for a moment the sadness and disease left her eyes. She seemed happy. When their desserts of sorbets had been cleared away Grissom excused himself to go to the bathroom. As soon as he had his back to them Francine dropped her smile and pretence, suddenly looking weak and drained.

"_Gilbert_ looks good," she remarked, watching as Grissom went indoors. She turned toward Sara, eyes soft with concern. "How has he been?"

Sara flicked her gaze toward where Grissom had gone and smiled, before refocusing on her companion. "He's doing well," she said, then went on to tell Francine about his short stay at the hospital but that since then he'd been doing better; that after another course of chemoradiation they'd finally consider operating on him.

"Has he talked about going home yet?"

Sara understood which _home_ Francine was referring to straightaway. She shook her head. "He wants to see things through here." Francine's gaze narrowed in a question, and Sara smiled knowingly. "And I respect his decision. I'm here for the long haul."

"Good for you," Francine said, nodding her head in approval, "and him." Her eyes shot to the patio doors, checking to see if Grissom was back, then turned back to Sara. She opened her mouth, then shut it, clearly debating how best to go on, or if to go on at all. She picked up her glass of water, took a small sip, put it down again and Sara braced herself for what she was about to hear.

"Sara," Francine went on at last in a quiet voice. Pausing she glanced at the patio doors again, then caught Sara's eye and held it. "I haven't got long left. That's it for me―goodbye." Her voice broke, and wiping at one eye she forced a bright smile. "I'm not going to make it back to Paris. I'm going to stay here. It's peaceful and…" Her smile wavered but held. "It's home." Her shoulder lifted. "I've come home."

To die, Sara thought, the tears in her eyes blurring her vision. She blinked, swallowed. Forcing her lips into a smile she reached for Francine's hand and squeezed its long, bony fingers. Francine's eyes drifted shut briefly as if struggling to stay open, and Sara allowed her tears to flow.

"I'm so glad I got to meet dear Gil," Francine went on in a quiet but clear voice, "and you, of course. When the time comes…I hope he'll remember the fun me. He kept me going these last few months through tough, uncertain times, and I'll always be grateful. But I'm fine now; I'm ready. I've made peace with myself, with my past – and I feel better, freer for it. I'm ready to go. I've said all my goodbyes. I've had a good innings, but my time has come."

Sara wiped at her eyes. "Is there…" she cleared her throat, "Is there anything I―we can do for you?"

Francine gave her a warm smile and reached over to pat her hand fondly. "Non, ma belle. You've already done so much. Just don't tell him, all right? I mean he knows it's coming, but maybe not this soon. Don't tell him anything until you go back to Paris. Don't let this spoil your stay, and my day with you. He looks so happy."

Sara nodded, forcing a smile through her tears, too choked up for words. Her eyes drifted over to the patio doors; shouldn't Grissom be back by now? Should she be worried at the delay? Could something he had eaten for lunch have disagreed with him?

"It's going to be all right," Francine said, weakly patting Sara's hand again, and Sara refocused unsure if Francine meant for herself or Grissom. "It'll be fine." Francine turned her head toward Sara and fixed her with unblinking eyes. "It's not his time. Mon coeur―my heart tells me it isn't."

Francine began to cough, a deep chesty cough that shook her to her core. Sara reached for her glass of water, gently bringing it to her lips when the cough eventually subsided.

"Merci," Francine said weakly. With great pain she reached down for her purse and rummaged inside for a crumpled tissue which she used to wipe her mouth with. Sara felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Everything okay?"

"Peachy," Francine replied, her smile returning as if by magic at the sound of Grissom's voice.

Grissom's eyes flicked to Sara, questioning, suspicious. She gave a small headshake and stared at him, telling him not to probe further, that she'd tell him later. "What took you so long?" she asked, changing tack.

Concerned eyes fixed on Francine, Grissom resumed his seat. "I went to check on Hank."

"And how is the beast?" Francine asked.

"He's made a new friend, a white poodle with a pink bow called _Princesse_."

Sara pinched her lips, stifling her smile.

"I had a poodle once," Francine said, her voice trailing, her gaze distant. And once again they took a trip down memory lane.

Soon after, Francine asked Grissom and Sara if they'd mind if she went home. She'd had a wonderful time, she claimed, but worried she was intruding on their romantic getaway. She didn't fool anyone. A cab was promptly the hotel next to the awaiting taxi Francine lifted shiny eyes to Grissom. Her smile wavered but held. Taking both his hands in hers she leaned forward while Grissom met her halfway in a typical French greeting of a kiss on each cheek before pulling her in a gentle hug.

Francine spoke some words Sara didn't hear to him as she returned his embrace warmly, her hands patting weakly at his shoulders. When they pulled back Grissom nodded his head at her, then looked up and away toward the taxi barely hiding the tears in his eyes. Then Francine turned to Sara and smiled. "Adieu, ma belle," she whispered as the two women kissed on the cheeks, "And remember what I said."

_Adieu_ rather than _au revoir_, and Sara understood that these goodbyes were farewells, that this would be the last time they would see Francine alive. She looked over to Grissom and realised from the grim look on his face that he knew it too. As Francine climbed into the back of the taxi Sara took Grissom's hand, gripping it tightly. The car pulled away but not before Sara noticed Francine's right hand come up to her eyes in a surreptitious wipe.

Grissom's expression was pinched with pain and suffering and she knew he was struggling to keep a lid on his sorrow. Sara's heart felt heavy, but she knew that what Grissom felt was far worse. When the car had completely disappeared out of sight Grissom turned toward her. He seemed at a loss as where to go from there. His jaw muscles bunched then relaxed, and then bunched again.

Asking whether he was alright would be stupid in the circumstance, as insisting they continued with their spa day, so instead she said, "You want to go for a walk?"

Grissom forced a smile, nodded. "But let's get Hank first, huh? Free him from that wanton poodle's clutches."

Despite Hank's natural playful and uplifting nature the mood was irremediably altered. It became laden and subdued, Grissom withdrawing into quiet introspection for the rest of the day. He was still loving and attentive toward her, but gone was the levity and banter of before. The following day he woke up in better spirits. They had a leisurely breakfast, took a long walk along the promenade before checking out and making the return trip to Paris.

Francine died a week later.


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: I thoroughly enjoyed writing Francine as a character and I'm glad you all liked her and like you I'm sad she had to die. She wanted to go out with bang – not literally ;-) – and I hope I did her proud. I also hope you won't find it distasteful, or disrespectful, but she was insistent.

* * *

"The happy days are here and now; now is the time to laugh and live,

Drink all the wine, sing all the songs that life can give.

Our yesterdays are dead and gone, tomorrows are so far away,

So be alive and think of now as the happy days."

-Charles Aznavour, _The Happy Days._

* * *

Balancing her purse and two grocery bags, Sara pushed the heavy wooden doors and let herself into the lobby. It was Thursday, a week later. Grissom had spent the afternoon at the hospital, undergoing treatment while she'd gone to her French lesson and then food shopping. The door banged shut. Sara slipped her keys in her jacket pocket and checked her watch, making for the stairs. It was six pm, later than she would have liked. Adjusting her bags, she quickened her step. He should be back by now, resting.

More often than not she went to his medical appointments with him, but not that day. Alex, her tutor, had changed their morning meeting to the afternoon and Grissom had insisted she went. His treatment was going well, since his scare he hadn't had any meaningful side-effects, and he'd promised to call her if he was feeling at all unwell and needed her to pick him up. He hadn't.

"Madame Grissom?"

Sara paused mid-step and turned around. Madame Louboutin stood at the bottom of the stairs, holding a package in her hand.

"This came for you and Monsieur Grissom earlier," she said in French, raising the package in Sara's eye line.

As far as Sara knew they weren't expecting any deliveries. Pursing her face in puzzlement, she retraced her steps. Since she was carrying a bag in each hand and her purse over her shoulder, she raised her elbow, asking Madame Louboutin to slot the parcel under her arm. It was very light. "Merci," she said brightly, and bid the concierge's wife a nice evening. She was turning back when a thought struck her, and she whipped back round. "Monsieur Grissom n'est pas rentré?" Mr Grissom isn't back?

Madame Louboutin replied that she didn't know, that she hadn't seen him, which struck Sara as strange.

Sara managed the four flights of stairs without dropping anything. Clumsily she banged her elbow on the door, hoping Grissom would hear and let her in. She heard Hank's nails clicking on the hardwood floor, coming to greet her, but no Grissom. When after another louder knock he still hadn't come, she set her bags and packet on the floor, reaching inside her pocket for her keys. Slipping the key in the lock, she picked up the bags and went in. Hank was as effusive as ever and after dumping her load on the kitchen table she took a moment to return his greeting.

"Gil?" she called, "You back?"

A cursory look around the apartment told her he wasn't. She asked Hank, who didn't know. She tried to make light of the situation but to no avail. She felt anxious, suddenly on edge. Her heartbeat thumped in her chest as possible reasons for his lateness flooded her mind. None good. Back in the kitchen she found her cell in her purse and checked she hadn't switching it off or to silent by mistake. She hadn't, and the display showed no missed calls or messages. Again she checked the time, and then called his cell. Her hands were trembling. Her call went straight to voicemail.

She paused, hesitating, restlessly drummed her fingers to her mouth. Should she keep calling him? His phone would be turned off at the hospital, and if he was still receiving treatment away from him. Should she call the hospital? Inquire on a possible delay? But then he had promised to keep her informed himself, exactly as to prevent what was happening now – needless worrying and panicking. Maybe he'd decided to walk back from the hospital, it was a pleasant afternoon after all, and had lost track of time. It wouldn't be the first time.

Hank circled round her, affectionately nuzzling the side of her leg, probably sensing her disarray. "What do you think?" she asked him, reaching down to his head and scratching around the ears fondly. "Am I worrying over nothing?"

Her gaze fell on the package on the table. Picking it up, she turned it over. Their names and address had been written in shaky, cursive and very French handwriting. Her brow creased. The faint postmark read Le Touquet Paris-Plage. Quickly, she ripped the outer packaging open, lifted the lid on the cardboard box. On top of white tissue paper lay a note, penned by the same hand. She picked it up and read the short message. It was written in French and signed by Francine. She read it again, but either it was cryptic or she wasn't deciphering the handwriting well because she couldn't make head nor tail of it.

Her brow now deeply furrowed, she set the note aside, peeled the layers of tissue paper away, revealing a sash of fabric, beautiful silk in the softest, warmest shade of orange she had ever seen. It reminded her of the orange groves of her childhood. Carefully she took out the folded fabric and let it unravel. It came apart in two pieces. In one hand she held a long, narrow scarf with very delicate tassels on each ends, and in the other a plain square the size of a small handkerchief, the type men wear sticking out of their suit breast pocket at weddings and―a tight lump lodged itself in her throat―funerals.

Sara looked up, her eyes full of tears. It all made sense now: the puzzling note, the gifts. Suddenly she knew where Grissom was, where he'd taken refuge. Francine had died, and he'd been given the news. Probably at the hospital, she figured. She grabbed her keys and cell and purse and rushed out of the apartment, hurriedly apologising to Hank and promising to take him on a long walk later.

In the street, she took off at a trot down the sidewalk, sidestepping the few passers-by rushing home. Slowing down at the intersection she waited for a car to go past before crossing, reaching her destination breathless. Turning the big, brass handle, she pushed the heavy door open with both hands. Inside, she took a minute to catch her breath and let her eyes adjust to the dim light before walking down the middle aisle, scanning frantic eyes left and right over rows of empty pews for her husband.

He wasn't there. At a loss, she walked right up to the front of Saint-Nicolas' church and took a seat on the pew Francine had been praying on when they'd first met. Tears filled her eyes again at the loss of a dear friend of course, but also at the pain and sorrow she knew Grissom must be feeling. She bowed her head as if in prayer while she gathered her thoughts, wiped her eyes and then stood up. She needed to go home; she needed to be there for when he got back.

She was stepping out of the pew when she noticed flickering light behind a stone pillar directly to her left – candles burning on an old-fashioned wrought iron, free-standing candleholder. Instinctively she walked over to it. Grissom sat there, hidden from view, head bowed down, shoulders hunched, looking down to his clasped hands between his legs. She took a deep fraught breath and let it out slowly, wiped at the fresh tears in her eyes and covered the short distance to him. He didn't move, didn't acknowledge her presence in any shape or form.

Silently, she sat down next to him, wrapped her arms around him and held him. His body was tense, overwrought. She felt him look up and over at her. He shifted round toward her in her arms. When she met his gaze his eyes were dry, but red-rimmed and sad, so very sad. Even though expected, the news must still have come as a shock. His face looked gaunt and tired, which wasn't unusual after receiving treatment. He'd been doing so well with it all lately, and selfishly she hoped that Francine's death wouldn't set him back in his own fight against cancer.

"I'm sorry," she said in a whisper, "I know she was a dear friend and you cared deeply about her."

He gave her a smile, nodded. "How do you know?"

"Francine sent us a package. You were late. I―I…" Words failed her and she shrugged.

"I'm sorry I worried you," he said, and swallowed, "But I needed a little time on my own."

"It's okay," she said with a soothing smile, and stroked his face. "I understand."

"Docteur Fournier came to see me after radiation. He told me. He…" He dropped his gaze, falling silent, and she tightened her hold on him. He'd tell, in time. They remained in Saint-Nicolas' church, silent and introspective, but together, for what could have been five minutes or maybe an hour. The calm permeating the place was all encompassing, soothing and restorative. Grissom was the first to move, standing up and staring at a lone candle on the holder for a long moment before crossing himself and looking over at Sara. He was ready to leave.

She gave him a smile, took his proffered hand, and together they went home. Grissom took Hank for a quick walk while Sara put the groceries away and made a start on dinner, neither ate much of. Afterward they sat and watched a little television. Grissom was quiet but seemingly fine, but she could tell that even though his face was turned toward the TV screen his mind was somewhere else. She wished he would open up, talk about what he was feeling and not keep his pain bottled up and at bay.

Long after they'd gone to bed, as they lay awake in the dark waiting for a sleep that wouldn't come, Grissom told her that Francine had passed away peacefully in her sleep the previous night. She was two months shy of sixty. Her father had found her, he said with a smile on her face. Grissom let out a quiet scoff, and Sara turned over on her side, propping up on an elbow so she could better see him. He was looking up at the ceiling, a wistful expression on his face. His eyes shone in the darkness.

Francine's funeral was to be held four days later on the Monday, Grissom told her, timed perfectly it would seem to suit his hospital schedule, and would take place in Saint-Pierre's church in Le Touquet. He turned his face toward her. A tear escaped, rolling down to his ear. He didn't try to wipe it off. "Do you think she knew?" he asked.

Sara brushed hair away from her face and nodded her head slowly. "Yes," she replied with certainty, "she did. I know she did. She was ready. I think she waited until she'd said all her goodbyes. She…told me she'd made peace with herself, with her past." She gave him a tremulous smile. "She'd fought a long battle bravely."

He nodded his head, refocused his gaze on the ceiling. He let out a sigh through his nose. "The cancer won."

Sara pushed up on her elbow. "It won't with you," she said with all the conviction she could muster.

He didn't acknowledge her words. Looking over at her he opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and fixed his eyes once more upward. "Sara," he said finally, and pinched his lips, clearly hesitating, visibly unsure whether to speak his mind or not.

"Gil?" she said, anxious. Had he been given news at the hospital – bad news – he hadn't shared with her because of Francine's death? "What is it?"

He shuffled round to his side, met her eyes earnestly. "I―I want you to know that…I've made arrangements."

Her brow creased in puzzlement. "Arrangements?"

He nodded. "I've…taken steps." He reached out his hand, brushed the back of his finger to her face, swallowed. "If the cancer was to win again―"

"It won't."

His smile was soft and loving, but sad. He wanted to say more, stuff she wasn't ready to hear, would never be ready to hear – that she'd be provided for, looked after, financially secure. She couldn't care less about any of that. She could see conflict in his eyes, but he dropped the issue. "You're right," he said, voice full of resolve, "It won't."

The last funeral Sara had attended was Warrick's five years previously. As she sat in the small parish church holding Grissom's hand she couldn't help thinking back to that day. She remembered it vividly. Her gaze kept flicking to her right, mindful, checking, but Grissom's face was set, his eyes shiny but dry, looking dead forward as he listened to the priest's brief address, to the readings, his emotion stoically under control. Francine's father made a moving eulogy. Grissom's grip on her hand tightened imperceptibly.

Following Francine's very explicit wishes – the cryptic note Sara had been at pains to decipher – none of the mourners wore black. The mood was light and jovial, celebrating life rather than death. The church was small and airy, and welcoming, not imposing and gloomy as many of the larger ones were wont to be, the small congregation a strange kaleidoscope of colours inside the whitewashed walls.

Most of the men wore pocket squares and the women scarves in varying shades of reds and yellows, blues and greens, orange... A long forgotten children's song popped into Sara's head. Her face lit up with a wide smile. No doubt the reaction Francine had been after when she'd masterminded her exit. Sara had chosen to wear her Costa Rican dress, the delicate silk scarf Francine had gifted her the perfect accessory. Grissom had insisted on wearing his suit – navy, not black – but proudly displayed the matching pocket square on his breast. And they'd agreed; no tie.

The framed photograph sitting atop the closed casket showed a young, tanned, laughing Francine, crinkly blue eyes looking straight at the camera, or as Sara liked to think looking straight at all of them gathered there in homage. Blue, shimmering water filled the background, stretching as far as the eye could see. Her hand was raised, shielding her eyes. Long, blonde tresses billowed in the wind. She looked to be standing on the back of a small sailing boat, leaning against the edge. The shot captured perfectly Francine's gaiety and free spirit, her zest for life and fun-loving nature. Sara wondered whether Francine had chosen the picture herself. Of course she had.

David Essex' _Hold Me Close_ had played Francine in the church and Charles Aznavour's _Les Jours Heureux_ was playing her out. A few people wept, but most wore amused, indulgent expressions. Grissom was one of the latter. Sara wished she understood the lyrics of the song better, but what she made out about seeing out bad times because happy days weren't far away felt very apt in the circumstance.

Francine was laid to rest with her mother in the family tomb in the small cemetery at the back of the church. Both were at peace, looking out to the sea and on a clear day the white cliffs of Dover. Afterward Docteur Fournier walked over to them, shook both their hands. He was accompanied by a petite woman with slick shoulder-length blonde hair, which he introduced as _mon épouse._ My spouse. Docteur Fournier wore a similar pocket square to Grissom's, but in such a vile lime green that Sara had to smile. Green, the colour representing health supposedly. Idly, she wondered whether Francine had sent the good doctor's wife a matching scarf. The latter certainly wasn't wearing it.

Grissom's eyes narrowed imperceptibly in a question, and Sara quickly stifled her smile, schooling her features into a more appropriate expression. She hoped Francine was looking down at them and having a good laugh. They exchanged a few pleasantries, spoke of Francine's fortitude, agreed she would have been pleased with the service. Docteur Fournier kindly inquired whether they'd like a ride back to Paris, but the couple declined, having decided on an overnight stay at Le Touquet. Hank was at the Louboutins and Le Touquet held good memories for them, so was not?

As soon as the Fourniers had moved on, Grissom turned to Sara. "Should I even ask?" he asked, his tone amused.

Sara's smile returned. "Do you think Francine researched the meaning of colours before she sent her parting gifts to everyone?"

A grin broke across his face. "Oh, yes. That green was truly revolting, wasn't it?"

Grissom's gaze drifted off, taking in the view. The day was overcast but hot and humid. A storm was brewing somewhere above the sea. Dark clouds were already rolling in, carried inland by a strong wind that whipped hair about people's faces. A few of the women wearing hats had either taken them off or held a firm hand to them to stop them blowing away.

"Do you think she orchestrated the weather too?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the scenery.

Sara chuckled. "It wouldn't surprise me if she did." Their gazes met. "You okay?"

"I am," he said with certitude and reached for her hand, squeezing it. "Francine wanted the day to be a memorable one – in a good way. She succeeded. Even in death, she kept true to herself."

"She was a remarkable woman."

Grissom smiled, nodded. "She was." His face darkened, his eyes became distant, but he didn't voice what she knew he was thinking; that he hoped he would have his friend's strength, her resolve and fortitude when the time came. She wondered whether Francine's death had made him re-evaluate his own decisions concerning his treatment, and more importantly where he was receiving said treatments, but there was time.

In tacit agreement they started back toward the church. People had begun to drift away. They located Francine's father, paid their respects, then set off a slow pace down a windy road toward the sea front. There had been something else in the package Francine had sent them, another gift Sara hadn't noticed at first, but one Grissom had been expecting.

Grissom pulled the one-hundred-euro casino chip out of his pants pocket, tossed it in the air in front of him before catching it with his hand. He wasn't a fan of roulette but Francine was, and he had promised. Looking up to the heavens he smiled before once again shaking his head in disbelief.

"Let's go play roulette," he said, refocusing on Sara, "and grant her that last request."


	24. Chapter 24

"For true love is inexhaustible; the more you give, the more you have. And if you go to draw at the true fountainhead, the more water you draw, the more abundant is its flow."

-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

* * *

Sara woke up groggy and tired, almost more tired than when she'd finally got to sleep at around three am. Her mouth was dry, her belly twisted in a knot. Raising her head off the pillow she squinted up at the bedside clock and sighed. It was nine thirteen am. Grissom had always been the lark in their relationship, she the night-owl but not for the past week or so, for he was still in bed beside her.

Since Francine's funeral a week before, he'd grown increasingly quiet and depressed, preoccupied, hardly wanting to leave the apartment unless it was necessary, not even to walk Hank around the block. She didn't think it was Francine's passing itself that had brought about such change in him, he felt sad of course, understandably, but rather the realisation that he too was up against it. He hadn't said as much, but she knew him well.

He'd go through the motions of eventually getting up every day, of getting washed and eating – not enough – of taking his medication and going for treatment, but he did it all as he would a chore conducted at Sara's insistence and only to placate her. His mind, his heart weren't in any of it. It was almost as though he'd given up, and yet she knew he hadn't. He just didn't seem to care.

He would potter around the apartment for a while, broody and distracted, settle restlessly on the couch in front of the television or on his iPad, then go back to bed under the pretence that he was tired. And she didn't doubt he was, his treatment and side-effects more gruelling than ever. Nothing held his attention for longer than a few minutes at a time. He would start a task and then forgetting that he had he would start another one.

Sara kept telling herself that his behaviour was normal, that he would sort through his fears and feelings soon enough, not to make too big a deal of it. But with every new day she saw him slip deeper and deeper into a funk she could find no way of helping him out of. With every new day she felt distance building between them again too. He wasn't deliberately pushing her away. Nor was he being cruel, or unloving, not on purpose anyway. Withdrawing into himself was just his way of coping. But she couldn't help feeling excluded, and it hurt.

More importantly though, he was losing weight again, and looked worse than he had when she'd got back into his life six weeks ago. She was worried about him, about what this negative state of mind was doing to his physical health, but all her attempts to get him to open up were met with a wan smile and a deathly silence.

_What do you want me to tell you?_ those smiles and silences seemed to say. _How can I put into words what I'm feeling? _ _How can you even begin to understand what I'm going through? You're not the one who's sick._ And in those moments she almost wished she was.

Sara's gaze shifted to his still form. Grissom was on his side, facing away from her. He was awake, she could tell by the tension in his shoulders, by his overly measured breathing. She moved closer to him, draping her arm over him as she pressed the side of her face to the back of his shoulder and kissed it good morning. She felt him tense slightly at the touch, but she didn't relinquish it. Eventually he relaxed. His hand came up, reaching back to pat her arm, acknowledging her greeting, but he made no attempt to turn and reciprocate it.

Closing her eyes, she snuggled closer to him before rolling away and pushing away her side of the covers, getting out of bed. Her gaze lingered on him as she straightened her nightie's right strap that had slipped off her shoulder. _Talk to me_, she wanted to say, _please, talk to me before it's too late._ _Let me share in your pain, in your fears._ But she didn't say it. She gathered her hair into a ponytail, already at a loss as to where to go from there.

"Do you want me to open the shutters a little?" she asked instead, hoping a little sunlight might begin to lift his spirits.

"No," came his muffled reply.

She paused, hesitating, then moved to his side of the bed, picked up his empty water glass and stood uncertain, watching him. His eyes were open, staring at a spot on the wall in front of him. She ran the back of her hand over his brow. "Have you taken your meds?"

His non-reply was answer enough.

"I'm going to make a start on breakfast," she said tentatively. "Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Gil," she said, loving and patient, "You've got to eat something."

He closed his eyes, took a few slow breaths, then reopened them, adding in a milder tone, "I'm not hungry. Later maybe."

"What about your meds?"

He let out the longest sigh.

"I'll fill up your glass with juice, and bring them to you. How about that?"

Sara reached down her hand to his shoulder, then to the hand tucked beneath his cheek, gave his fingers a weak squeeze. He gave a faint, lacklustre smile and nodded his head in acquiescence. After a stop in the bathroom and a chat with Hank in the kitchen while she sorted through his medication, Sara returned to the bedroom. Grissom hadn't moved an inch and she sat down at the edge of the bed by his side, holding the glass and pills out to him. Hank dropped down to his haunches, watching the scene with intent.

Grissom made a pout, but shifted back and up into a sitting position against the headboard anyway. His pyjama top was crumpled, smelling of sweat. He hadn't trimmed his beard since the funeral and it had grown bushy, making him look haggard and old, and sick. With a heavy heart, she held out her goodies and he took them reluctantly. "Stop watching me," he said flicking his eyes over at her.

She kept her gaze steadfast on him. "What else I am to do?" she asked softly. "You told me before that you didn't want me – didn't _need_ me to act as your nurse. But, Gil, you leave me with no choice." His gaze lowered. She leaned her head down, seeking his eyes but he wouldn't meet hers. She kept her voice steady and quiet, hiding her growing emotion well. "I know you're having a hard time of it at the moment, and I want to help you. Let me help you. If you can't talk to me, then talk to someone who knows what you're going through. There are help groups for people like you―"

His head snapped up. "People like me?"

"Yes," she said, unwavering, "People with cancer. It's not a weakness, Gil."

Grissom didn't reply. He simply averted his gaze to the glass and pills in his hand with a sigh.

Having made her point she opted for a change of tack and nudged his arm slightly, playfully. "There's a protein shake if you'd rather." Her tone, though light, brooked no argument.

His eyes met hers. "You drive a hard bargain," he replied in a grumble.

"C'est parce que je t'aime."

The corners of his mouth slowly curled up in a smile. "You should speak French more often."

If she had known that telling him she loved him in French would get him to smile she'd have done it days ago. Slowly he brought the glass to his lips and she watched as between sips he swallowed his pills one at a time.

"So what is it going to be?" she tried again, suddenly filled with confidence that her perseverance was finally being rewarded. "Fruit or porridge?"

He raised his gaze to her, seemingly pondering his reply. "French toast?" he asked tentatively.

A grin spreading over her face she pushed to her feet before he could change his mind. "I'll see what I can do." Hank followed suit before giving himself a vigorous shake. "Hank needs a pee," she said, "And I need a shower first. So, how about I call you when it's ready?"

He nodded his head at her. "There's no rush. I'll still be here when you get back."

"C'est ce que je pensais." That's what I thought.

His eyes narrowed imperceptibly as though trying to fathom her tone, and she winked. Again, his mouth twisted to the side in a faint smile. She watched him a moment longer and was about to turn away when he reached out his hand to her.

"Thank you," he said. His gaze was solemn, searching and apologetic, and she knew all the things he was thanking her for; her love and patience and not giving up on him.

Her grin returned. She leaned toward him for a kiss. "Je vous en prie," she retorted lightly. You're welcome. All these French lessons were finally paying off, she thought with a gleeful smile as she left the room.

Sara was in the shower when she heard the antiquated toilet being flushed next door. He was up, which was a good sign. Soon after, wrapped in her robe and wet hair combed back, she made her way back to the bedroom to get dressed. The bed was empty, and since the apartment was silent she hoped he'd taken Hank out. She pulled the covers right back to air the bed, finding his pyjamas in the folds. Had they finally turned that corner, she wondered? The smile on her face was wide and happy.

On impulse she opened the bedroom window, throwing the shutters wide and letting in some much needed air. Then she stripped the bed, put the sheets and his pyjamas in the wash. A key scraped in the lock. The front door opened and shut quietly, heralding their return. She heard voices, well one voice, quiet but upbeat. She got dressed, applied face cream, opting to let her hair dry naturally, just the way he liked it.

Grissom was in the kitchen, looking inside the fridge with Hank eagerly hovering at his side. Coffee was brewing in the two-cup coffee press. The dog's food bowl was full, his water fresh. The sight warmed her heart. Grissom brought milk out, added a little to two raw eggs waiting in a dish, then whisked it all up into a smooth mixture. He took a slice of old French bread he'd already cut up, dipped it into the mixture, turned it over, then carefully placed it into the hot skillet.

Grissom licked his fingers, turned the heat down, and then started over with a new slice. For the first time in days he looked totally engrossed in what he was doing and like he was enjoying himself. Sara scratched around Hank's ears on her way in, leaned her head against his shoulder briefly while he cooked before silently opening cupboards and drawers, setting the table. She'd act like everything was fine, like it was any normal day – and it was – and take his cue.

"I couldn't find any cinnamon," he said, looking over his shoulder.

"It's okay. I'll get some next time I'm grocery shopping."

He nodded. His attention was back on the French toast. "Do we have any of those blueberries left? Or did you use them all when you made that shake yesterday?"

"I think we may have a few left," she replied, headed to the fridge. Yes, she'd act like everything was fine, and take it from there.

Five minutes later, Grissom served up the food. She added a generous sprinkle of powder sugar to hers, while Grissom helped himself to the blueberries. Hank who all this time had been hoping for scraps ambled over to his bowl and began chomping on his own breakfast with gusto.

"Gil," Sara said after a while, and finished chewing her mouthful, "I was thinking. That money we won on the roulette, maybe we could donate it. I mean it's a considerable amount of money and we don't need it as such, so I was thinking that maybe we could…make a donation to a cancer charity on Francine's behalf." She paused, gauging his reaction. "What do you think?"

"I think she'd like that."

Sara smiled, nodded. "We can ask at the hospital on Thursday; they'll know of worthwhile charities."

Grissom's face closed off. He nodded his head before silently returning his attention to his breakfast. She could kick herself at her thoughtlessness. Why bring up the hospital then, huh? He ate about half of his remaining slice, then paused and put his knife and fork down. He had the look of someone bearing bad news and it made her feel jittery.

She flashed him a tense smile. "You've had enough?"

He gave her a nod in reply, but kept his gaze averted and she took his hand, forcing him to look at her.

"What is it?" she asked fearfully. And then it dawned on her. "Is it your mother? Have you heard from her?" Betty was due to arrive this coming Saturday.

"No," he replied quickly, reassuringly. "It's not my mother. I mean, I heard from her and as far as I know everything's going to plan. I'm not looking forward to having to tell her, but…no, that's not what's worrying me. Well, not entirely." He let out a breath, flicked his gaze away, then back to her face. There was resolve in his eyes. "I'm due to have new scans done on Thursday – CT, PET, the whole shebang."

Sara's heartbeat quickened in anticipation. "They're thinking of resecting?"

His shoulder lifted. "They won't make a decision until they've seen the scans and are happy the tumour's shrunk enough. But yeah, it's in the cards."

She found it hard to hide her excitement at the news, excitement he didn't seem to share. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Again he shrugged his reply. "Because I knew you'd get excited, and I don't want your hopes dashed." He sighed. "I know I should be happy, but instead the news has left me unsettled and anxious. I'm worried about what the scans will show, or not. What if they can't operate? Where does that leave me? _Us_?" he amended desolately.

Sara opened her mouth to reply that it was no use getting worked up about it yet, that they'd cross that bridge when they got to it, but he didn't give her the opportunity.

"Sara, there's a real possibility that…that even if they can resect…" He paused, bowed his head, then wiped a hand over his face while she sat there motionless, helplessly watching while he composed himself. Eventually, he looked up at her, reached for her hand. "Sara, this resection is my only hope for a cure. If they can't operate the median survival rate is around four to eight months, and we're already there."

Sara blinked the tears from her eyes and nodded her head. She knew all that of course, had read up about it weeks ago, done the math herself, but hearing him say the words suddenly brought it home. No wonder he'd been feeling so low, overwhelmed and confused, his friend's passing most probably a delayed catalyst. She had no words that could assuage his fears. She wouldn't insult his intelligence by offering platitudes, false reassurances and empty promises. It wasn't her style, nor what he wanted to hear.

"It's normal to be feeling the way you do," she said. "It's normal to be scared and anxious, questioning that you're doing everything you can. But you are. I mean there's nothing you could do differently."

He gave her hand a squeeze. "I could have chosen to be treated back home," he said.

"But you didn't. You trust in the doctors here, and I've made my peace with that."

His smile was soft, acknowledging. "I know what sacrifice you've made for me."

"Gil, it was no sacrifice. It was a choice I should have made a long time ago."

"Still. I don't know what I'd have done without you. These last few days, it suddenly just got too much."

Sara returned his hand squeeze. "You've been doing so well, for so long, it was bound to catch up with you." She paused and held his gaze steadily. "I want you to promise me something, Gil. I want you to promise you won't ever keep me in the dark like this anymore. I know you were only trying to protect me but…" Her eyes filled, and she shrugged off the rest of her sentence. "Please, promise me."

He entwined his fingers with hers, gave her a smile. "Je promets," he said solemnly.

Sara was finishing wiping down the table when, circling around her legs, Hank let out a whine. "I thought you'd already been out," she said, glancing down at him.

His forlorn gaze told her that what had transpired earlier could hardly pass as a walk and that he needed to go again, now.

"Gil," she called over her shoulder as she turned toward the sink to rinse her cloth, "Hank needs to go again. I'm going to take him and grab a few things for lunch on the way. Do you want anything?"

After a short delay Grissom popped his head round the kitchen door. The top of his cheeks were covered with shaving cream, and she smiled. "Maybe you could get me a New York Times if you happen upon one on your travels," he said.

"Anything else?"

He puffed up his cheeks, thinking it over, then shook his head 'No'.

"Maybe we could take a walk somewhere this afternoon. Not far," she added quickly, before he could start to object. "Maybe to the river and back. Get an ice cream on the way."

There was a pause. Just when she thought he was going to decline he nodded his head at her.

It was with a spring in their steps that Sara and Hank left for their walk. She had some beef tomatoes in the fridge she would turn into tomates farcies, one of Grissom's favourite dish, served with plain boiled rice. She would stop by the boucherie to buy some lean sausage meat to stuff the tomatoes with. In the charcuterie she would buy a portion of vegetarian quiche that she would have with a side salad.

Her menu decided upon, Sara quickened her step, tugging at Hank's lead firmly. She made a detour via the bureau de tabac on Rue Monge she knew stocked New York Times before heading to her favourite boulangerie for fresh bread. The French she'd need to speak was all prepared in her head. She'd come to love heading out to the shops every day and trying out her new skill. Her accent needed a lot of work still, but the shop keepers recognised her now and seemed happy to indulge her.

An hour later and all her shopping done, she was back in their street. As she was about to cross over to their side, she looked up to the fourth floor windows, smiling when she caught Grissom there watching. He'd obviously been looking out for them. He'd changed out of his slacks and was wearing a button down shirt. He'd trimmed his beard, and although his face still looked tired and gaunt, he looked a thousand times better than he had in days.

His returning smile lit up the whole of his face. She gave him a wave then stepped off the curb, her step lighter for seeing him in such better spirits. A few more days and he'd be back to normal. Something happening on his right caught his attention, his eyes widening with fear as he turned toward it.

"Sara, watch out!"

From then on, it all seemed to happen in slow motion. Sara turned her head to look, just in time to see a black car speeding straight at her. Hank was still on the curb and instinctively she let go of his lead. For a split second she froze, unable to decide whether it was best to jump forward or back toward the curb, before her instincts kicked in. Hearing the screeching of brakes being applied she braced herself for impact.


	25. Chapter 25

"Do not be afraid; our fate  
Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift."

― Dante Alighieri, _Inferno, the Divine Comedy._

* * *

The car came to a juddering stop inches from Sara's legs, close enough for her to feel heat radiating from the engine through the hood. Her heart was pounding in her chest, the sudden surge of adrenaline keeping her frozen to the spot. For a moment, she could only stare, wide-eyed and panting, at the driver. The blonde woman was slumped forward, both hands wrapped around the Citroën C4's steering wheel in a vice grip.

Sara frowned. Was that a cell phone in the woman's right hand? She too was breathing hard, her face as white as a sheet, and Sara knew that just like her she'd had the fright of her life. Hank let out a bark, and Sara whipped her head round to him. He was fine, unharmed but unhinged, whining as he restlessly paced the small square of pavement at her level. The lead that was dangling from his collar dragged on the concrete.

Sara's breathing was returning to a more normal rhythm as her shock began to fade, briefly making way to relief, before it turned to anger. The woman had been on the phone while driving too fast in a busy city street. Setting the shopping bag she was still clutching on the ground by her feet Sara turned thunderous eyes on the driver and slammed both hands on the car hood, ready to share a piece of her mind.

The woman was sitting back in her seat now, rubbing her neck where the seat belt had restrained her when she'd braked so sharply. The car door opened. The woman stepped out of it, gesturing and letting out a string of French that was way beyond Sara's comprehension. What was clear though, was the tone of the message. She wasn't apologising for her lapse in concentration or enquiring whether Sara was hurt, but appeared to be laying the blame for the near accident solely at Sara's feet.

Sara felt the heat rise in her face. The tongue lashing went both ways, Sara giving as much as she took – in French and when that failed her, which was very soon, in English. A small crowd of people had gathered, all witnesses, all putting their two cents worth, Hank joining in among them. Cars were gradually piling up behind the Citroën, impatiently tooting their horns, adding to the spectacle.

Sometime during the kerfuffle Grissom showed up, breathlessly emerging from the building onto the opposite sidewalk. Sara didn't notice his panicked expression turning to relief and then amusement as he stood there, watching the show with a cocked brow and a wry smile, not until tail wagging and lead dragging Hank sauntered over to him on the other side of the road.

Grissom knelt down and ruffled his coat affectionately. The C4 driver took advantage of the distraction to get back inside her car and rev the engine. The crowd began to disperse. Quickly refocusing, Sara picked up her bag and moved out of the way, joining Hank and Grissom on the sidewalk outside their building. The show was over.

"Pauvre con," Sara threw under her breath at the retreating car.

Grissom looked up at her, suppressing a smile. He picked up Hank's lead and stood up with a wince. "Good to see all those French lessons are paying off," he said, reaching an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to him, "but you're forgetting to agree your noun."

Sara turned a puzzled frown on him. "What?

He loosened his hold on her shoulder, shrugged his. "Grammar doesn't stop even for cuss words. The ditsy blonde was a woman, so you need to use the feminine form of asshole. It should have been _pauvre conne_."

Her scowl slowly morphed into a smile. "Yeah?"

He gave her a soft nod. "Yeah."

"I'll file it for future use," she retorted with a twitch of her lips.

Grissom took in and blew out a deep breath, his expression sobering. "You scared the crap out of me, Sara. I saw the whole of your life flash in front of my eyes."

Sara's brow furrowed with puzzlement. "That should be my line." She aimed for a light tone, but failed miserably. She too had been shaken, more than she cared to admit to him or even herself. "And for the record, it didn't."

"What didn't?"

"My life; it didn't flash in front of my eyes.

"Still," he said, twisting his lips in such a way that told her he didn't think the whole situation was anything to joke about. "Honey, that was a close one."

"She was driving far too fast," she defended. Heat was rising in her cheeks again. "And she was on her phone―"

"Come here," he interrupted softly, putting a stop to her rant. Beckoning her to him, he opened his arm out.

Sara's face softened, and there on the sidewalk she fell into his arms. Closing her eyes she let out a long breath. Suddenly she felt spent and a little weak at the knees as the adrenaline drained away from her body. His body was strong and solid, and she found herself clinging to him that little bit tighter**. **When she reopened her eyes she was looking down at his feet. Her lips pinched, badly hiding her amusement. Giggling she pushed away from him and met his eyes.

"You know you came out in your slippers, right?"

Grissom looked down to his feet and laughed. "So I did."

They never noticed the curtain twitching back into place in the ground floor window of Madame Louboutin's apartment, nor the lingering smile on her face as she picked up her hot iron and pressed it to her husband's workpants.

As soon as the door to their apartment closed behind them, Sara was physically led to the lounge and instructed to sit down and put her feet up. Her sandals were removed, a French magazine thrust in her hands, her trusted French/English dictionary conveniently placed on the coffee table within reach. The stereo was switched on, a CD carefully selected from the shelf, inserted into the stereo and played. She frowned as she tried to place the composer. It wasn't Grissom's usual taste.

"It's Ludivico Einaudi," he said, lifting the CD case in her eye line when he noticed her expression. "His music has been described as the welcome sound of stillness in a hectic world. Very apropos, wouldn't you say?"

Sara's lips twitched up. "Gil, I'm fine. This…" she motioned at herself on the couch, at her bare feet, at the soft but uplifting music playing in the background, "is lovely and sweet, but totally unnecessary."

His expression was soft with concern. "You've suffered a shock."

"Hardly a shock. It just got my blood pumping a little, that's all."

"Humour me this, will you? Let me be your nurse, just for a bit. Pay back some of your kindness."

She paused. Why not indulge him, she thought, if it made him happy? "_Love_ and kindness," she amended quietly.

His face lit up with mischief. "Love and kindness," he repeated meekly. "Cup of tea, my dear?"

Sara made a face at his teasing. "Come and sit with me first. You had a fright too."

"I can't. I got to make a start on lunch."

Her gaze and tone turned pleading. "S'il te plaît?"

Grissom stared at her at length as though weighing up his options. She couldn't believe the change in him. Maybe this near miss was just the jolt he'd needed to get him out of his lethargic state of mind and back to normal. Smiling wider at him, she batted her eyelashes. He covered the distance to her and dropping down onto the couch beside her draped his left arm across her shoulders while she instinctively leaned her head against him. At that moment in time and despite everything happening in their lives she couldn't be happier.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked him after a moment in companionable silence.

He sighed. "You first."

"All right. I was thinking how happy I am, right now sitting here with you." She looked over at him and smiled. "You?"

He shrugged. "I was thinking the same."

"No, you weren't."

His lips twisted to the side, a sure sign she'd read him right. "I was merely thinking how lucky I am. You could have been hit. You could have been hurt badly. Just like that. In front of my eyes and I was powerless to make it stop."

"But I wasn't."

He gave her a soft nod, kissed her forehead, and she settled herself back against his shoulder. _This is exactly how I feel all of the time_, she wanted to tell him, _powerless to make anything stop_. She felt his lips brush the top of her head as he tightened his hold on her and she closed her eyes. How could he feel lucky? Despite it all, he felt lucky– lucky simply because she hadn't been hurt. Tears built behind her closed lids, and again she found herself praying that, just like it hadn't been her time earlier, it wasn't his time yet.

"Let me get you some sweet tea," he said, drawing her out of her melancholy. Gently, he disengaged his arm and pushed to his feet.

Sara smiled and nodded her head and picking up the bag of groceries he disappeared to the kitchen. "This is silly," she muttered to herself and got up from the couch to go and help him.

"Sara," she heard him say in a warning tone before she'd had time to move, "Keep your butt on that couch."

Sara's head snapped to the doorway. It was empty. "All right," she mumbled as she fell back onto the couch.

She picked up her magazine and flicked through the pages without much enthusiasm; she'd had as much French as she could take for one day. She'd check her messages on the iPad instead. Her inbox listed five unread messages: two were junk and she deleted them, one was from Greg, another one from Nick and the last one from her mother's care facility asking her to call back – still too early in Vegas to do it now and she figured that if it was urgent they would have said.

Next she opened Greg's message – a little lab gossip, an attachment to a video clip for a new band she would absolutely adore and a heartfelt "I miss you" and "When will you be back?" at the end. She would reply to him later. She'd deliberately kept Nick's message for last and she hesitated before pressing on the 'next' arrow. She guessed it was about Javier Santiago's trial which was due to start later in the week and hoped it wasn't an impassioned plea for her to cut short her 'vacation'.

"Sara? You okay?"

Grissom's voice startled her out of her daydream before she could open Nick's email. He'd set the mug of tea he'd made in front of her on the coffee table.

"Sure," she said, giving him a wide smile as she flipped the iPad cover shut.

He offered her some of the apple he was munching on, which she declined with a headshake. "It's just…you got that look on your face."

Her smile faded. "I got an email from Nick. He's testifying in a court case for me."

Sitting down next to her, Grissom took another bite of the apple. "Is it a big case?" he asked, chewing.

Sara took in a breath and nodded her head. "You remember I worked a murder case last year – well, three actually – three teenage girls. We found them in shallow graves lying side by side."

"That's right," he said. "But you only had enough hard evidence to convict the guy of the murder of the third girl."

Again she nodded. "The DA's going to try to get him on circumstantials for the other two murders." Restless energy coursing through her, she reached forward for her tea which she cradled in her hands as she sat back in the seat.

"Do…do they need you back?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

Sara looked up. "No. Absolutely not," she said with conviction. "I was primary but Nick worked the case with me. And my notes are―"

"Extensive."

She smiled. "Yeah." Raising the mug of tea to her lips she took a careful sip.

He took in a breath, let it out slowly. "I mean…it's fine with me if you need to go back." He flashed her a brief smile. "I understand. You worked hard on that case, and besides I'm sure your mother could do with a visit."

"Gil, I am _not_ going home without you. Work can do without me. My mother is fine. I spoke to her on the phone last week. If anything, I think we have more to say to each other on the phone than we do face to face." She paused, suddenly remembering the email she'd just received, and steered the conversation onto safer grounds, or maybe not she realised belatedly. "Talking of mothers…" She slid her mug onto the table and lifted both her hands up in front of her, wriggling her fingers, "I'm going to need to brush up on my sign language."

He pursed his face at her. "You and me, both," he said in a scoff. He caught her left hand in mid-air and turned it over. "Why haven't you put your ring back on?" he asked, glancing up.

She looked over at him with surprise. "I don't know. I—Do you want me to?"

"Only if you want to. I mean, you would never have taken it off if it hadn't been for what I did."

It would be strange wearing hers if he wasn't wearing his. "I thought I'd wait until you could wear yours again. I thought about having it resized, but then I thought…" She sighed and then pinched her lips to hide her growing emotion. "I don't need a ring to know that you love me, just as much as you don't need one to know that I love you. Gil, when all this is over, when you've beaten the cancer and been given the all clear, I thought we could…exchange rings again. I don't know, maybe it's silly."

"It's not silly," he said, regarding her solemnly. Tears clouded his eyes, but he kept his fears and misgivings unvoiced. Finding no other words, he simply pulled her into his arms and held her as tightly as he would if it was for the last time. When he pulled back from her, he was somewhat composed again. "It's just…" his shoulder lifted and there was a sudden glint of mischief in his eyes, "I never told my mother that we—I…well, you know, and she might find it strange that you're not wearing your ring anymore."

"Well, then, we'll just have to explain about our little plan, and include our mothers in our tête-à-tête."

"I don't know about that," he muttered unhappily, and she laughed.

The following Thursday came and went without any more hiccups. Grissom packed an overnight bag, just in case, and they went to his early morning hospital appointment a little ahead of time. Grissom underwent a very thorough battery of tests. Blood was drawn, integrated CT and PET scans done concurrently, the results of which would be discussed in detail the following Monday.

The experience was strangely underwhelming for Sara, if utterly draining for Grissom, especially as she had to stay outside for most of it. On the plus side though, she had plenty of time to inquire about a worthwhile charity to donate their roulette winnings to, and they were home by early afternoon, the much-feared overnight stay not required.

Saturday seemed to be upon them all too soon, but everything was ready to welcome Betty. A room had been booked in a two-star hotel a couple of streets away. A long stay rate including breakfast had been negotiated, and it had been decided that Betty would share all her other meals with them. Grissom was determined that his cancer wouldn't stop the three of them from having a good time and doing all the touristy sights and attractions, a visit to the Louvre being top of Betty's list.

Betty had been so excited at the prospect of a visit when they'd first broached the topic. Grissom hadn't been able to tell her about the cancer, still hadn't fathomed how he would. He never said it, but Sara knew that he'd planned this trip to be a sort of farewell, the goodbyes to the people that he loved he'd spoken of when they had first got together.

Betty's flight was due to land at Charles de Gaulle airport at 14.10. Grissom, who had spent the morning like a restless tiger, insisted they left early – God forbid they should get caught in traffic or that the plane landed early, even though he'd rung the airline and knew it wouldn't. At the arrivals hall, Sara suggested they sat down and got themselves a coffee while they waited but Grissom declined, insisting he wanted to remain within sight of the gate. The minutes ticked by, too slowly.

Sara was watching a little girl spin around a post when she felt Grissom's hand slip inside hers. "That's it," he said when she looked over at him, and they both looked up at the arrivals monitor. "She's here. Her plane's landed."


End file.
